NRLF 


OFTHB 


ce,  Fifty  Cents 


J 


The 
Governor 

AND 

OTHER  STORIES 


By  GEORGE  ^.  HIBBARD 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1892 


\ 


SCRIBNER'S  YELLOW  COVER  SERI1 


PARTIAL    ANNOUNCEMENT    OF    NEW    VOLUMES    FOR 
THE   GOVERNOR,  AND   OTHER   STORIES.     By  GEC 

A.    HlEBARD, 

A  volume  of  six  entertaining  stories  by  an  author  who  ha 
servedly  become  a  great  favorite  with  magazine  writers. 
Howells,  in  Harper  s,  refers  to  Mr.  Hibbard's  work  as  having  "; 
tain  felicity  of  execution  and  a  certain  ideal  of  performance  \ 
are  not  common.  The  wish  to  deal  with  poetic  material  in  the  r 
of  physical  conjecture  is  curiously  blended  with  the  desire  oJ 
traying  the  life  of  the  society  world." 

SEVENOAKS.     By  J.  G.  HOLLAND. 

"Without  doubt  this  is  the  best  story  Dr.  Holland  ever  wrot 
will   bear  a  second  reading  as   well   as   any  novel  which    has 
written  in  this  generation." — Chicago  Inter  Ocean. 

"Dr.  Holland  will  always  find  a  congenial  audience  in  the  h 
of  culture  and  refinement.  He  cherishes  a  strong  fellow-feeling 
the  pure  and  tranquil  life  in  the  modest  social  circles  of  the  Ame 
people,  and  has  thus  won  his  way  to  the  companionship  of  : 
friendly  hearts." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

REFLECTIONS  OF  A  MARRIED  MAN.     By  ROBERT  GR 
Ready  in  May, 

A  delicious  vein  of  humor  runs  through  this  new  book  b 
author  of  "The  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  who  take: 
reader  into  his  confidence  and  gives  a  picture  of  married  life  tl 
as  bright  and  entertaining  as  it  is  amusing.  The  experienc 
Fred  and  Josephine  are  so  typical,  that  it  is  singular  that  they 
never  got  into  print  before. 

THE    WRECKER.      By    R.   L.  STEVENSON    and    LLOYD 
BOURNE.     Ready  in  June, 

Here  is  a  tale  so  full  of  daring  adventure  and  incident  ar 
brilliantly  told  that  it  could  have  been  written  only  by  the  autl: 
"Kidnapped"  and  "Treasure  Island."  It  is  largely  an  Ame 
story  in  scene  and  character,  the  theatre  of  action  shifting  ra 
from  Paris  to  California  and  the  South  Seas,  and  the  leading  ch 
ters  consisting  of  American  types  whose  portraits  are  drawn 
great  skill  and  boldness. 

OTHER     VOLUMES    IN    PREPARATION. 

-'•  '•;•*  For  volumes  of  Series  already  issued,  see  third  pa$ 

cover. 


THE    GOVERNOR 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  GOVERNOR 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 


GEORGE  A.lHIBBARD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1892 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


GIFT 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPA 
NEW  YORK 


£  1 3 
L- 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GOVERNOR, 1 

A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA, 67 

"As  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD,"  ....  123 

A  MATTER  OF  FACT, 177 

A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE, 215 

THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING,     ....      263 


P766381 


THE  GOVERNOR 


THE   GOVERNOR 


THE  sleek,  spirited  horses  picked  their 
scornful  way  up  the  avenue,  held  in 
restive  subjection  by  the  impassive  coachman 
— stouter  than  his  companion,  the  footman — 
fresh-faced,  clean-shaven,  solid  upon  the  box 
and  apparently  oblivious  of  all  greatness  save 
his  own,  as  a  coachman  should  be.  The  glossy 
carriage,  almost  noiseless  in  its  slow  motion, 
held  only  a  grim,  gray-haired  old  man.  Many 
eyes  were  bent  upon  him.  Pedestrians  paused 
to  look  at  him.  The  occupants  of  other  carri 
ages  broke  short  their  conversations,  and  turned 
to  catch  another  glance  as  he  passed.  Here 
and  there  a  hat  was  lifted.  Without  change  of 
expression,  however,  except  when  the  light  of 
personal  recognition  occasionally  lit  up  his  face 
and  he  half  automatically  returned  a  bow,  the 
tall,  thin,  commanding,  much  noticed  and  most 
noticeable  personage  sat  almost  motionless. 


4  THE  GOVERNOR 

Thirty  -  nine  years  before,  he  had  entered 
the  city  a  boy  of  twenty,  with  scarce  money 
enough  in  the  pocket  of  his  coarse,  ill-fitting 
coat  to  pay  for  a  week's  subsistence.  It  was 
an  afternoon  like  this,  and  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  town  then,  as  to-day,  glittered 
along  this  same  avenue.  Then,  as  now,  he 
looked  away  up  the  broad  street,  bordered  by 
stately  buildings,  at  the  glistening  carriages 
flowing  in  counter-currents  up  and  down ;  at 
the  scattered  hundreds  upon  the  sidewalks;  at 
the  whole  animated  scene,  all  given  tone  by 
the  mellow  autumnal  sunshine.  How  different 
it  all  was  and  yet  how  much  the  same.  He 
had  envied  them  then,  with  the  feverish,  im 
patient,  unreasoning  hatred  of  unsatisfied  am 
bition.  He  had  sworn  then,  that  he  would 
possess  more  than  any  of  them  possessed  ;  com 
mand  more  than  any  of  them  controlled.  And 
he  had  kept  to  that  resolve,  through  all  the 
thirty-nine  years;  that  resolve,  that  was,  after 
all,  only  a  renewal  of  another  resolve  made 
once  before.  He  thought  now  with  almost 
pitying  contempt  of  the  impetuous  fashion  in 
which  the  first  had  been  made ;  of  the  eager 
impulse  with  which,  that  summer  afternoon 
under  the  old  willow,  he  threw  down  the  book 


THE  GOVERNOR  5 

that  he  had  been  reading  and  vowed  that  he 
too  would  win  power,  fame,  and  wealth.  In 
what  exaltation,  in  what  passion  of  the  mo 
ment  he  had  made  his  resolution. 

"I  wonder,"  and  the  thin,  close-drawn  lips 
for  the  first  time  approached  change  of  expres 
sion — a  slight  smile  that  was  quickly  gone, 
flickering  over  them,  "  I  wonder  if  I  can  find 
the  marks  of  my  blows  upon  the  old  tree, 
Avhen,  with  only  the  possibility  of  mere  physi 
cal  exertion  to  satisfy  my  longing  for  imme 
diate  action,  I  pounded  its  twisted  trunk  with 
a  fallen  branch  until  I  was  tired." 

There  was  a  block  at  an  intersecting  street, 
and  the  carriage,  pausing  on  the  cross-walk, 
brought  its  occupant  within  ear-shot  of  the 
knot  of  people  waiting  for  the  way  to  clear. 

"The  Governor.  They  call  me  the  Gov 
ernor.  The  Governor.  And  the  Governor  of 
a  pivotal  State.  The  newspapers  I  see  grow 
stronger  about  it  every  day.  It  may  come  to 
me — it  has  come  to  others — to  me,  as  things 
come  to  those  who — go  to  meet  them.  And 
I  am  rich,  richer  than  I  ever  dreamed  I  should 
be.  I've  a  right  to  my  holiday  if  ever  a  man 
had — the  first  in  forty  years." 

He  drove  out  of  the  avenue  into  the  park. 


6  THE  GOVERNOR 

The  wheels  ran  with  softer,  hollo wer  roll  upon 
the  smoother  road.  The  rattle  of  the  harness 
was  more  noticeable.  The  hoofs  of  ridden 
horses  in  rhythmic  beat  could  be  distinctly 
heard.  The  stream  of  humanity  poured  here 
with  hurrying  pulsation,  and  lagged  there  with 
slower  eddy. 

"  I'll  go  back  and  look  at  my  own  past,  my 
own  youth.  I'll  go  back  to  the  old  place.  I 
wonder  if  it  will  be  greatly  changed.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  find  any  of  them  there — after  forty 
years  ?  No  doubt — held  there  by  the  insidious 
strength  of  habit,  effortless,  almost  brainless  in 
the  stupefying  turn  of  slow,  dull  routine,  Yes, 
I  will  go  back.  It  is  a  whim,  almost  a  roman 
tic  folly — but  I've  a  right  to  it.  I  haven't  done 
so  many  senseless  things  in  my  life  that  I 
haven't  a  right  to  do  this  one." 

And  so  disconnectedly,  and  with  frequent  in 
terruption  as  attention  was  caught  by  what  he 
saw  or  overheard,  ran  the  Governor's  thoughts 
as  he  drove  on — the  man  whose  slow,  steady,  in 
exorable  advancement,  never  retarded  by  over 
scrupulous  method,  never  impeded  by  even 
the  record  of  many  an  obstruction  thrown  some 
times  relentlessly  in  wreck  out  of  his  path, 
made  him  one  of  the  most  remarkable  figures 


THE  GOVERNOR  7 

of  the  day — the  man  who  now,  sanctified  by 
success,  had  reached  unquestioned  eminence 
throughout  the  land. 

Shadows  steal  across  the  country  from  the 
west — renegade  deserters  of  the  day,  seeking 
to  join  the  main  body  of  invading  darkness  ad 
vancing  from  the  east.  A  train  has  just  arrived 
at  the  small  station — a  platform  and  a  shed 
merely — which  is  the  stopping-place,  on  this 
particular  line,  nearest  to  the  village  of  Farm 
stead.  Two  passengers  only  alight.  One  an 
old  man,  tall  and  spare,  the  Governor,  who,  the 
day  before,  as  he  drove  along,  had  so  held  the 
gaze  of  the  avenue,  where  there  were  so  many 
and  so  much  to  attract  attention ;  the  other  a 
trim,  decent-looking,  middle-aged  person,  who, 
as  the  two  stepped  from  the  train,  unfolded  a 
light  overcoat  with  the  easy,  unobtruding  care 
that  indicates  the  watchful  and  skilful  ser 
vant. 

There  was  the  sound  of  empty  milk  -  cans 
hastily  set  down,  and  then  the  conductor  raised 
his  hand  to  the  engineer,  leaning,  pipe  in  mouth, 
from  his  cab.  The  train  started,  and,  grumb 
ling  dissatisfaction  at  having  been  stopped  at 
all,  steams  down  the  track.  There  are  the  usual 


8  THE  GOVERNOR 

surroundings  ;  the  gallows  -  like  affair  giving 
warning  of  the  railroad  crossing ;  a  pile  of 
empty  barrels  ;  a  freight-car  or  two  on  a  side 
track,  with  doors  wide  open. 

The  Governor,  shading  his  eyes  with  one 
hand  from  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun,  looked 
long  and  earnestly  over  the  country,  from  which 
rose  the  heavy,  sweet  perfume  of  a  warm  au 
tumn  day. 

"  Nothing — nothing  at  all  like,"  he  mutters, 
and  then,  reassuringly,  "  but  I  was  seldom  here. 
There  was  no  railroad  in  my  time." 

But  still  he  did  not  move.  The  warm  ul 
tramarine,  in  the  west,  was  shrinking  into  a 
cold,  delicate  green,  and  soon  the  horizon 
would  become  a  dull,  glowing  yellow.  The 
platform  was  already  deserted.  There  was  but 
one  vehicle  in  sight — a  one-horse  wagon  into 
which  a  boy  was  loading  the  clattering,  dented, 
brass-rimmed  milk-cans.  The  Governor  was  a 
little  impatient — was  growing  angry  in  fact, 
with  the  indefensible,  wholly  unreasonable  irri 
tation  natural  to  gentlemen  of  his  years.  How 
could  he  get  to  Farmstead  ?  Why  was  there 
110  means  of  conveying  travellers  thither  ? 

"  Do  you  want  anybody  ?  "  said  some  one  in 
a  thin,  youthful  voice  behind  him.  The  Gov- 


THE  GOVERNOR  9 

ernor  turned  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  boy,  who,  having  finished  loading  the 
wagon,  had  mounted  to  the  platform.  "With 
feet  wide  apart  he  stood  looking  at  the  Gov 
ernor.  He  was  fresh  -  faced,  round  -  cheeked, 
sturdy.  His  attire  verged  upon  raggedness — 
not  the  raggedness  of  poverty,  but  the  natural 
raggedness  of  healthy  boyhood.  He  looked  at 
the  tall,  grave  man  before  him  with  a  steady, 
straightforward  stare,  free,  however,  from  both 
assurance  and  embarrassment. 

"I  want  some  means  of  getting  to  Farm 
stead,"  answered  the  Governor. 

"  Going  there  myself,"  replied  the  boy,  not 
too  smartly  and  with  a  good-humored  friendli 
ness.  "  I'll  take  you  over  if  you  like.  If  you 
don't  go  with  me  I  guess  you'll  have  to  walk. 
Many  don't  come  by  this  road,  and  the  stage 
isn't  sent  over  here.  Want  to  come  ?  " 

He  glanced  up  smiling,  and  the  Governor 
nodded  his  assent. 

"  Does  he  want  to  come  too  ?  "  continued 
the  boy,  jerking  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of 
the  servant  busy  with  the  luggage.  The  Gov 
ernor  nodded  again. 

"I  guess  there's  room  for  the  lot  of  you," 
answered  the  boy,  cheerfully. 


10  THE  GOVERNOR 

"Williams,"  said  the  Governor,  "take  the 
bags  and  get  in  behind." 

The  vehicle  was  of  the  kind  once  known  as 
a  carry-all,  with  a  straight,  stiff  stick  rising  at 
each  corner  to  support  a  hard,  flat  roof.  The 
leather  tags  by  which  the  curtains  were  upheld 
flapped  raggedly,  giving  it  an  altogether  dog 
eared  appearance,  and  the  rusty  iron-work  and 
splashed  wheels  and  body  told  of  long  and 
hard  usage.  It  was  not  a  luxurious  or  even  a 
very  comfortable  turn-out.  But  the  Governor 
was  very  glad  to  make  use  of  it. 

"There,"  said  the  boy,  after  he  had  jumped 
into  the  wagon  himself,  "give  me  your  hand. 
Now  then." 

The  Governor  so  aided  stepped  on  the 
muddy  hub,  climbed  slowly  up  and  seated 
himself  beside  the  boy  on  the  front  seat. 

"  Most  people  come  by  the  new  road  that 
goes  right  through  the  village,"  said  the  boy, 
after  they  -had  started. 

"  Ah,"  responded  the  Governor. 

"  Go  long,"  said  the  boy  to  the  horse. 

If  the  Governor  had  ever  attempted  to  form 
any  such  mental  picture,  he  probably  would 
not  have  imagined  himself  returning  to  the 
home  of  his  childhood  in  this  fashion.  As  his 


THE  GOVERNOR  11 

thoughts  ran  when  he  drove  up  the  crowded, 
noisy,  glittering  avenue,  so  his  thoughts  ran 
now  as  the  staid  old  horse  drew  him  slowly 
along  the  silent,  shadowy  country  road.  The 
nearer  he  came  to  Farmstead,  the  more  dis 
tinct  became  his  memories.  He  remembered 
things — often  surprisingly  trivial  things — that 
he  had  not  thought  of  for  years.  The  aspect 
of  the  trees,  the  lines  of  the  fences,  he  rec 
ollected — sometimes  with  singular  clearness. 
And  the  people — he  had  not  seen  any  of  them 
for  forty  years — yet  he  could  remember  ex 
actly  how  many  of  them  looked.  He  wondered 
what  had  become  of  the  old  school  teacher, 
and  of  all  the  boys  with  whom  he  had  gone  to 
school.  What  had  become  of  Joliffe — Joliffe 
of  whom  he  had  not  thought  for  so  long  a 
time,  although  once  he  had  thought  of  him 
often  enough.  And  with  this  memory  his 
features  became  suddenly  even  more  severe 
and  then  quickly  relaxed  into  an  expression 
almost  of  eager  pleasure.  Joliffe !  How  that 
name  brought  back  the  past.  It  was  jealousy 
of  him,  as  much  as  anything  else,  that  had  led 
to  the  famous  resolve  by  the  willows,  nearly 
half  a  century  ago.  Jealousy — absolute  jeal 
ousy  he  thought.  For  then  Joliffe  had  seemed 


12  THE  GOVERNOR 

blessed  with  all  the  favors  of  fortune.  Only  a 
country  doctor's  son,  yet  the  holder  of  almost 
all  the  prizes  of  that  humble  life.  Jealousy 
finds  its  cause  not  only  in  what  others  have, 
but  in  what  we  have  not,  as  well.  And  Joliffe 
was  the  possessor  of  so  much  that  was  desired, 
and  the  representative  of  so  much  more  only 
imagined.  "  How  I  should  like  to  give  him  a 
tAvinge  of  regret,  of  envy,"  thought  the  Gover 
nor.  "  If  I  could  but  make  him  realize  the 
pettiness  of  his  own  life  and  the  power  of 
mine,  that  would  repay  me  for  the  hours  of 
boyish  misery  he  caused  me.  Has  not  some 
one  said  that  we  do  our  meanest  acts  on  ac 
count  of  those  we  most  despise  ?  Should  any 
one  know  that  I,  after  forty  years,  still  feel 
resentment  against  the  insignificant  son  of  a 
country  doctor,  he  would  think  me  contempt 
ibly  beneath  contempt." 

"I  don't  do  this  sort  of  thing  every  day," 
volunteered  the  boy,  finally,  looking  back  at 
the  cans.  "They  are  pretty  busy  at  home," 
pausing  to  see  if  his  companion  caught  the  full 
significance  of  his  words  ;  "  I  did  it  as  a  par 
ticular  favor." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  Governor,  absently. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  boy,  disappointed  that 


THE  GOVERNOR  13 

he  had  made  no  deeper  impression.  "  You 
see  they  are  going  to  have  a  wedding,  and 
they've  got  a  good  deal  to  do  getting  ready. 
Somebody  had  to  get  the  cans,  and  I  said  I'd 
do  it." 

He  flapped  the  reins  on  the  back  of  the  horse, 
and  for  a  moment,  was  apparently  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  own  condescension.  "  I 
didn't  much  like  to  do  it,  'cause  there's  so 
much  going  on  at  home.  Say, "  he  exclaimed, 
"  you  aren't  one  of  his  relations,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Whose  ?  "  asked  the  Governor,  blankly. 

"  Mr.  Lysle's,  who's  going  to  marry  Sue." 

"  No,"  confessed  the  Governor,  almost  hum 
bly,  "  I  am  not." 

"  I  thought  you  might  be,"  said  the  boy. 
"  There's  a  good  many  of  them  been  coming 
lately." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"  You  know  the  place — the  people  about  here 
pretty  well  ?  "  asked  the  Governor,  abruptly. 

"  I  was  born  here,"  replied  the  boy,  with  a 
fine  scorn  which  the  oldest  inhabitant  could 
not  have  excelled. 

"  Do  you  know  anybody  by  the  name  of 
Joliffe  ?  "  the  Governor  demanded. 

"  Joliffe !  "  and  the  boy  opened  his  eyes  wide 


14  THE  GOVERNOR 

with  astonishment,  and  twisted  himself  in 
hilarious  contortion.  "Why,  my  name's  Jo- 
liffe,  John  Joliife.  It's  my  father's  name,  too. 
Ever  seen  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Governor,  slowly  ; 
"  he's  a  physician,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Why  certainly,  father's  a  doctor.  He's  re 
tired  though.  You  get  sick  around  here  and 
you'll  find  out  that  he's  the  doctor,  if  you  can 
get  him.  He's  a  great  doctor,  he  is.  No  one 
can  give  you  worse-tasting  things  than  he  can." 

"No  doubt — nq  doubt,"  murmured  the  Gov 
ernor,  utterly  unconscious  of  what  he  was 
saying  or  to  what  he  replied.  "  And  so,"  he 
thought,  "Joliffe  has  lived  on  here.  I  sup 
pose  the  slim  boy — by  the  way  how  much  this 
boy  looks  as  he  did — I'm  surprised  I  did  not 
notice  it  at  once — has  become  a  coarse,  overfed, 
country  dullard.  Married  early,  of  course — 
I  never  have  found  time  for  that,  early  or  late." 
Then,  turning  to  the  boy  again,  he  asked : 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Twelve  and  a  half,"  answered  the  driver, 
promptly.  "  I'm  the  youngest." 

"Any  brothers?" 

"  Two." 

"Sisters?" 


THE  GOVERNOR  15 

"  Three." 

"  Of  course,"  thought  the  Governor,  "  Joliffe 
was  the  veiy  man  to  have  such  a  family — a  ru 
minant,  a  calm-lived  bovine." 

"  Sue's  the  third  oldest,"  continued  the  boy, 
his  desire  for  conversation  causing  him  to  for 
get  his  haste  and  to  suspend  his  chirruping 
and  clucking  at  the  horse. 

"  And  she's  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Married  to-morrow  to  Mr.  Lysle,"  respond 
ed  the  youngster,  meditatively.  "  He  isn't  a 
bad  sort  of  fellow,  and  I  used  to  like  him  first- 
rate." 

"  You  liked  him  ?  "  The  Governor  was  sur 
prised  at  the  interest  he  took  in  the  matter, 
and  at  the  number  of  questions  he  asked. 

"  Before  Sue  said  she'd  have  him,  he  used 
to  give  me  a  lot  of  things.  Somehow  he  don't 
now." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  father,"  said  the 
Governor,  suddenly.  "  If  you  will  take  me  to 
your  house,  my  servant  will  walk  on  to  the  ho 
tel  and  have  a  wagon  sent  for  the  bags  and 
myself." 

"  It's  more  than  a  mile,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Why,"  said  the  Governor,  with  some  sur 
prise,  "  I  thought  that  you  lived  in  the  village." 


16  THE  GOVERNOR 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  boy,  "  you've  been  here  be 
fore.  But  that  was  the  old  house,  before  father 
gave  up  practice.  We  live  now  in  the  one  just 
outside,  that  used  to  be  the  minister's  house, 
and  that  father  fixed  over.  You  wouldn't  know 
it,  there's  been  such  a  lot  done  to  it." 

"  I  was  born  there,"  thought  the  Governor. 
And  then,  with  a  sudden  contraction  of  the 
brow,  "I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  I  wish 
I  hadn't.  I  might  have  bought  it.  I'd  rather 
that  Joliffe  did  not  have  it — John  Joliffe,  of 
all  men." 

"  My  father's  a  rich  man,"  continued  the 
boy.  "  Are  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  Governor  with  clear,  un 
abashed  eyes,  that  held  no  evidence  of  con 
sciousness  of  the  impropriety  of  the  question. 
His  unembarrassed  innocence  made  a  direct 
answer  even  natural  and  proper. 

"  Some  people  think  so,"  answered  the  Gov 
ernor. 

"  But  are  you  ?  "  persisted  the  boy. 

"  Yes." 

"Very?" 

"  Very." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  as  rich  as  he  is." 

"  Possibly  not,"  responded  the  Governor. 


THE  GOVERNOR  17 

The  light  had  diminished.  The  lulling 
sounds  of  the  coming  twilight,  the  quelled 
noises  of  the  field,  the  rustle  of  the  trees  scat 
tered  along  the  highway,  the  slight  clash  in 
one  place  where  some  stalks  of  corn  were  left 
standing  in  their  ripened  leaves — like  Arabs  in 
their  loose-hanging  robes — all  deepened  by  a 
multitude  of  dim,  half-realized  associations, 
softened  the  hour  to  the  Governor,  as  they 
now  drove  silently  along.  The  occasional  low 
ing  of  distant  cattle,  clearer  than  it  could  have 
been  earlier  in  the  year,  the  boom  of  a  night- 
hawk  swooping  down,  the  small,  shrill,  stridu- 
lous  pipings  in  the  bedusted  bushes — the  Gov 
ernor  heard  it  all — heard  it  with  that  finer  sense 
with  which  present  perception  has  but  little  to 
do.  A  grove  cast  deep  shadows  across  the  road. 
It  ended  abruptly,  and  they  came  in  sight  of  a 
large  house,  perhaps  half  a  mile  distant. 

"  That's  our  house,"  said  the  boy.  "  Our 
farm's  back  of  it." 

"  How  very  much  changed,"  mused  the  Gov 
ernor.  And  then  as  they  came  nearer  he  saw 
it — the  house  in  which  he  was  born  —  and 
Joliffe  owned  it  and  had  changed  it  to  what 
it  was.  Modern  architecture  had  made  of 
it  one  of  those  structures  now  scattered  in 
2 


18  THE  GOVERNOR 

such  number  through  the  country,  which,  in 
ready  adaptability,  in  evident  comfortableness, 
and  in  relieving  picturesqueness  appeal  pleas 
antly  to  the  eye  and  to  the  mind.  It  had  been 
painted  a  deep  red.  It  was  low  and  with  low- 
hanging  eaves  ;  broad  balconies  ran  around  all 
parts  visible  from  the  road.  With  its  many 
chimneys  it  was  easy  to  see  that  it  had  many 
rooms.  Evident  prosperity  dwelt  therein.  No 
one  could  doubt  that  broad  halls  ran  through 
it ;  that  in  many  of  its  rooms  there  was  place 
for  the  stir  of  happy  life,  in  others,  for  stillness 
and  peace.  It  was  something  much  more  than 
walls  and  roof.  It  was  a  home,  where  children 
could  be  joyous  in  sunshiny  spring  days,  and 
where  sorrow  could  be  softened  to  men  and 
women,  when  autumn  winds  tore  thrpugh  clash 
ing  branches — a  home  consecrated  beneath  the 
changing  hands  of  human  gladness  and  grief. 

They  passed  through  the  gateway,  over 
which  two  great  elms — one  on  each  side — 
dropped  their  branches.  These  were  changed, 
grown  larger,  but  the  Governor  recollected 
them.  They  were  the  first  things  that  he  re 
membered  altogether,  and  the  sight  of  the 
trees  filled  him  with  a  strange,  troubled  joy. 

They  rattled  up  to  the  side  veranda.     The 


THE  GOVERNOR  19 

horse  stopped  of  his  own  accord.  The  boy 
jumped  out.  A  couple  of  dogs  tore  around  a 
corner  of  the  house,  and  one  of  them  putting 
his  paws  upon  the  boy's  shoulders  licked  his 
cheek.  A  puppy  tumbled  along.  The  boy 
caught  it  up  and  with  a  hand  under  each  shoul 
der,  held  it  out  for  the  Governor's  inspection ; 
smiled,  shook  his  head  in  negative  upon  the 
claims  of  all  others  to  equal  this  puppy,  and 
then  placed  it  upon  the  piazza,  where  it  sat 
solemnly,  its  eyes  fixed  upon  a  dead  grasshop 
per,  as  if  it  comprehended  at  least  six  modern 
philosophies. 

A  hall-dozen  boys  and  girls  of  young  Jo- 
liffe's  own  age  were  at  full  run  across  the  lawn 
toward  him. 

"  Go  away,  everyone  of  you,"  cried  the  boy 
as  the  racing  group  reached  him.  "  What !  " 
and  he  stooped  to  hear  what  the  youngest  was 
eager  to  whisper.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
they're  going  to  have  that !  " 

"  Lots  of  it,"  said  one,  evidently  aware  of  the 
subject  of  the  confidence. 

"I  say,"  cried  young  Joliffe,  at  last  becom 
ing  conscious  of  the  duties  of  hospitality. 
"  I've  got  to  find  father.  There's  a  gentleman 
here  wants  to  see  him.  Cephas  !  " 


20  THE  GOVERNOR 

A  brisk  young  fellow  appeared  whom  the 
boy,  it  was  evident,  delighted  to  think  he  dom 
ineered,  and  with  quick  glance  at  the  Governor, 
gathered  the  reins  in  one  hand  while  with  the 
other  he  turned  the  horse  by  the  bit  and  led 
him  down  a  short  lane  bordered  with  huge  but 
ternut-trees,  toward  the  stables,  half  hid  by 
the  descending  ground,  a  troop  of  marauding 
turkeys,  just  in  from  a  day's  scout,  scattering 
out  of  the  way. 

The  children  all  turned  and  gazed  at  the 
Governor  with  the  frank  unconcealed  interest 
of  youth  often  so  disconcerting.  He  who  had 
so  many  times  borne  the  stare  of  curious 
crowds  without  confusion,  felt  suddenly  em 
barrassed  ;  he  who  had  so  often  received  im 
portant  and  importunate  committees  ;  who  had 
ruled  the  stormiest  of  national  conventions ; 
who  had  poured  words  in  abundant  flow  over 
packed  thousands,  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
He  seemed  to  himself  awkward,  clumsy.  If 
Williams  had  not  at  that  moment  asked  him 
about  the  luggage  and  given  him  an  opportu 
nity  to  answer  with  grim,  relieving  severity,  he 
would  hardly  have  known  what  to  do. 

"  Will  you  come  in,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  boy, 
the  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of  his  posi- 


THE  GOVERNOR  21 

tion  sobering  his  speech,  "  or  will  you  sit 
here?" 

The  Governor  preferred  to  sit  on  the  veranda. 
The  boy  had  been  gone  but  a  moment,  his 
companions  following  him,  when  a  young  girl 
stepped  out  of  an  open  window,  and — evidently 
she  did  not  know  there  was  anyone  there — 
walked  toward  him.  Stealthily  as  the  image 
steals  out  upon  the  negative  under  the  alchemy 
of  the  chemicals,  but  still  with  almost  instan 
taneous  action,  another  figure  took  form  before 
the  Governor's  inner  sight,  another  figure,  like 
this  one, 

"  A  child  of  nature's  rarest  making, 
Wistful  and  sweet  and  with  a  heart  foi  -breaking." 

Where  were  those  forty  years  ?  He  felt  a  sud 
den,  startling  contraction  of  the  heart.  The 
same,  almost  the  very  same — slight,  but  with 
the  slightness  of  pliant  strength ;  the  sun- 
burnished  hair ;  the  eyes  so  possessed  with 
happiness  ;  and — the  very  dress  the  same,  the 
light  lingering  that  it  might  fall  upon  the  cling 
ing  white  stuff.  Can  a  rock  drink  in  the  dawn 
of  a  spring  morning,  and  hold  it  in  unyielding 
fastness  for  many  years ;  were  such  the  deli- 


22  THE  GOVERNOR 

cacy,  the  truth,  the  tenacity  of  an  old  man's 
memory?  She  was  even  twisting  a  piece  of 
blue  ribbon  between  her  fingers  as  he  had  seen 
that  other  do  so  long  before. 

"I  thought  the  children  were  here,"  said  the 
girl,  a  little  startled,  a  little  puzzled,  as  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  stranger.  "  Do  you  wish  to 
see  anyone  ?  " 

"  Doctor  Joliffe,"  said  the  Governor. 

She  stood  turning  the  ribbon  with  a  certain 
shyness,  for  she  realized  that  the  man  before 
her  was  not  one  of  the  many  who  insisted  upon 
coming  to  the  old  doctor  for  advice  though  he 
had  so  long  been  out  of  practice.  And  then  a 
man's  voice,  positive,  rich,  of  generous  ampli 
tude,  was  heard  in  the  house. 

"  There  he  is,"  she  said.     "  I  will  call  him." 

But  upon  the  instant,  he  who  had  spoken 
stepped  upon  the  veranda.  He  was  a  man  of 
that  sturdy  strength  so  rarely  found  at  his 
age,  and  which,  when  found,  is  so  impressive, 
telling  as  it  generally  does  of  a  healthy,  active, 
untroubled  life.  For  the  man  was  old.  He 
had  white  hair,  whiter  even  than  the  Gover 
nor's,  whose  hair  was  a  dull,  heavy  gray.  He 
was  old,  but  still  he  stepped  with  an  alertness 
which  showed  that  years  had  110  more  impaired 


THE  GOVERNOR  23 

his  spirit  than  they  had  weakened  his  voice. 
He  walked  rapidly  toward  the  Governor. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  me  ?  "  he  said.  "  Do 
you?  I'm  invisible,  positively  invisible.  I've 
got  a  wedding  to  look  after."  He  glanced  in 
voluntarily  at  the  young  girl,  who  instantly 
found  a  new  interest  in  the  landscape.  "  A 
man's  got  a  right  to  be  let  off  on  an  excuse 
like  that — a  wedding's  better  than  Fourth  of 
July  or  Christmas,  it  doesn't  come  anything 
like  once  a  year." 

The  same  laugh — a  laugh  over  forty  years 
older  and  yet  the  same.  It  was  that  laugh,  so 
round,  so  broad,  so  full  from  centre  to  vanish 
ing  outskirt,  so  filled  with  the  satisfaction  that 
derides  all  dissatisfaction,  that  had  been  such 
exasperation,  such  provocation,  such  an  irri 
tant,  to  the  restless,  envious,  ambitious  boy  so 
long  ago.  How  he  had  despised  the  light  tem 
perament  that  shook  out  such  laughter,  as  you 
shake  the  blossoms  from  a  thorn-bush  in  the 
spring !  How,  when  too  young  and  too  inex 
perienced  to  conceal  the  aspirations  that  then 
seemed  so  absurd  to  all  but  himself,  how  the 
wild  rhodomontade  of  his  boyhood  was  checked 
and  chilled  by  that  very  laugh !  And  now, 
when  he  heard  it  again  after  forty  years,  did 


24:  THE  GOVERNOR 

it  not  carry  the  same  aggravation,  the  same  tor 
ment?  Was  it  petulant  querulousness  that 
another  could  still  be  apparently  so  vacant- 
mindedly  happy  that  troubled  him ;  or  was  it 
dissatisfaction,  rising  in  revolt  against  himself, 
with  what  he  was,  with  all  that  he  had  earned 
and  got  ?  There  was  a  flash  of  the  same  old 
fierce  envy  that  had  burned  in  his  boy's  heart. 
Envy  of  what?  Must  he  seek  rehabilitation 
in  himself  because  a  country  doctor,  beaming 
with  common  happiness,  rotund  with  common 
prosperity,  laughed  loudly  in  his  every-day 
house  ?  Was  it  envy  handed  down  from  his 
former  self,  like  an  heirloom  in  a  family, 
through  the  line  of  changes  that  he  thought 
were  in  himself ;  or  was  there  no  such  change  ? 
Was  the  laugh  that  had  helped  to  fuse  togeth 
er  and  anneal  those  discordant  desires,  hatreds, 
determinations,  abilities,  passions,  qualities  of 
heart,  into  a  character  dominated  by  an  all- 
powerful  ambition,  now  as  then  something  to 
make  him  scorn  what  was  his — the  very  super 
latives  of  the  world — wealth,  power,  celebrity  ? 
Could  this  man,  who  possessed  but  the  every 
day  excellences  of  existence,  thus  render  his 
own  possessions  almost  contemptible  in  his 
own  sight  ? 


THE  GOVERNOR  25 

So  lag  the  words  struggling  to  express  all 
that  the  Governor's  thoughts  spanned  in  an 
instant — so  do  mere  words  lag  and  fail. 

He  had  determined  not  to  announce  himself 
so  soon.  But  he  was  impatient,  half  angry 
with  himself.  If  he  spoke,  would  he  not  be 
satisfied  ? 

"You  do  not  know  nie?"he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

Joliffe  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  looked 
at  the  Governor  in  that  doubtful,  conscious 
way  in  which,  fearful  of  committing  a  rude 
ness,  we  look  at  those  demanding  recognition 
and  of  whom  we  have  no  memory.  But  the 
trace  of  doubt  in  his  smile  quickly  vanished, 
as  he  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Not  know  you !  "  he  shouted.  "  Not  know 
you,"  and  he  caught  the  Governor's  right  hand 
in  his  own  left  and  struck  his  own  right  into 
the  Governor's.  "I  didn't  at  first.  Time 
does  his  work  well  if  you  give  him  forty 
years.  But  I  know  you  now,  and  it  does  my 
soul  good  to  shake  hands  with  you.  How  in 
the  world  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

The  Governor  explained.  He  added  that 
the  young  gentleman  was  to  drive  him  over  to 
the  hotel  as  soon  as  the  milk-cans  had  been 


T  THE  GOVERNOR 

unloaded,  or,  he  concluded,  if  it  was  not  far 
he  would  walk. 

"Hotel!"  cried  the  doctor.  "Much  you'll 
see  of  the  hotel,"  and  he  stepped  to  the  corner 
of  the  piazza.  "  Cephas  !  "  he  called,  and  the 
young  man  appeared  running  to  answer  the 
summons. 

"Take  those  bags  into  the  house,"  com 
manded  the  doctor. 

The  two  old  men  stood  silently  gazing  at 
one  another. 

"  You  look  well,"  said  the  Governor,  at  last. 

"  If  you  don't  worry  the  world,  it  won't 
worry  you.  Now  you  have  worried  it  a  good 
deal." 

"  And  show  it,"  responded  the  Governor, 
grimly. 

"  We  know  all  about  you  up  here,"  Joliffe 
went  on.  "Because  we're  a  little  out  of  the 
way  you  must  not  think  that  we  don't  keep 
our  eyes  pretty  sharply  on  what  is  going  on." 

"  I've  no  doubt,"  replied  the  Governor. 

"  We  only  stand  aside." 

"  You  always  did,  Joliffe." 

"  Yes,  Governor,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  al 
ways  took  the  world  easily.  You  didn't.  You 
always  had  a  grudge  against  it.  You  hated  it 


THE  GOVERNOR  27 

as  an  enemy  to  be  conquered.  You  hated  it, 
but  still  you  were  always  bound  to  succeed  in 
it." 

"  Success,"  responded  the  Governor  in  his 
severest  tones,  "  is  the  only  revenge  we  can 
take  on  the  world." 

"  That  sounds  like  you,"  said  Joliffe,  looking 
curiously  at  the  man  before  him.  "  Only  the 
edge  instead  of  dulling  has  grown  keener.  But 
come,  you  must  see  the  rest  of  us." 

The  Governor  followed  the  doctor  along  the 
veranda  and  around  the  corner.  On  a  lawn 
stretching  beside  the  house,  young  people  were 
flying  about,  not  even  noticing  the  new  arrival, 
for  the  game  of  tennis  must  be  finished  before 
the  net  and  court-lines  should  be  obscured  by 
the  darkness.  On  the  veranda,  on  the  steps, 
and  on  the  gravel  walk  were  yellow  -  haired 
youngsters  and  gray -haired  elders — the  ex 
tremes  of  age,  that  find  so  much  in  common. 

"It  is  long  since  I  have  been  here,"  ex 
plained  the  Governor,  as  they  walked  along. 
"  I  thought  I  should  like  to  look  over  the  old 
ground  a  little." 

"You've  come  just  right.  There's  nothing 
like  a  wedding  to  brighten  up  old  memories. 
Even  if  it's  not  one  of  your  own  that's  leaving 


28  THE  GOVERNOR 

you,  still  you  can't  help  catching  something  of 
the  spirit  of  the  time." 

The  Governor  glanced  uneasily  at  the  tall 
girl  beside  his  old  companion. 

"  You  see  we  change,  in  our  own  slow  way, 
even  here,"  continued  the  doctor,  looking 
proudly  about.  "You  will  hardly  know  the 
village." 

The  two  old  men  slowly  approached  a  group 
about  the  doorway.  A  little  apart  from  the 
rest,  on  a  long,  low  chair  such  as  an  invalid 
might  use,  sat  a  lady  holding  back  the  vines 
that  she  might  see  the  conclusion  of  the  game. 
Her  delicate  face  would  instantly  have  re 
minded  anyone  of  the  young  girl  whom  the 
Governor  had  just  seen,  for  despite  the  many 
years  difference  in  their  ages,  the  mother's  face, 
besides  possessing  a  striking  similarity  to  the 
daughter's,  held  the  same  expression  of  bright 
intelligence  and  kindly  interest.  Hearing  foot 
steps,  she  quickly  turned.  A  smile  lit  up  her 
delicate  features,  as  her  eyes  fell  first  upon  her 
husband. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  doctor,  his  voice  soften 
ing,  "  I  bring  you  an  old  friend." 

It  was  evident  that  she  knew  him  at  once. 
And  he,  no  wonder  that  he  started.  In  her 


THE  GOVERNOR  29 

daughter  he  had  seen  her  living  apparition, 
and  here — ethereal  almost,  but  plainly  in  stead 
fast  life  —  here  in  reality,  and  more  beautiful 
in  the  Governor's  sight  than  her  likeness  in 
her  spring-time,  was  the  woman  he  had  loved 
nearly  half  a  century  ago — whom  he  had  then 
almost  worshipped  in  the  strength  of  his  strong 
and  then  not  wholly  perverted  nature  ;  who  of 
all  human  beings  alone  had  ever  had  the  power, 
unconsciously  exercised,  to  make  him  for  an  in 
stant  falter  in  his  purpose,  and  who  alone,  that 
purpose  fully  resumed,  could  have  had  power 
to  awaken  in  him  a  question,  a  regret,  a  doubt. 
And  Joliffe  had  won  her !  She  was  his,  as  was 
also  his  old  home.  Strange  that  he  had  not 
known  all  this  before.  But  was  it  so  strange  ? 
He  knew  that  she  had  not  married  within  the 
first  year,  and  after  that — well  he  had  not  taken 
thought  about  her  after  that.  Then  came  a 
dull  ache  at  his  heart,  another  sharp  pang  of 
envy  struck  at  his  very  being.  These  were  in 
stants  of  quick  retrospection,  of  sudden  recog 
nition.  Could  it  have  been  that  those  years 
were  barren,  heart-breaking  years  to  her,  as 
they  would  have  been  to  him  perhaps,  if  he  had 
not  been  in  abject  suppression  beneath  him 
self.  And  Joliffe  had  won  her!  They  had 


30  THE  GOVERNOR 

been  rivals  here  as  in  so  much  else,  even  in 
childhood,  in  that  bitter  rivalry,  bitterer  per 
haps  than  is  ever  found  in  after  years,  for  it  is 
direct,  outspoken,  untempered  by  the  amenities 
of  life  ;  but  in  this  rivalry  he  had  never  really 
feared  Joliffe.  From  the  very  first  had  not  the 
hundred  somethings  in  which  men  learn  their 
fate  been  in  his  favor?  Did  he  not  know 
always  that  they  were  more  than  light  im 
pulses,  casual  and  passing  likings,  that  bent 
toward  him  in  the  old  time,  and  that  told  him 
he  had  nothing  to  fear  if  he  would  but  speak. 
But  he  had  not  spoken.  To  speak  would  have 
been  renunciation  of  ambition,  a  self-condem 
nation  to  village  insignificance.  He  remem 
bered  well  the  morning  before  he  went  away. 
It  was  much  such  a  morning  as  to-day's  had 
been,  or  as  to-morrow's  might  be,  an  autumn 
morning,  glad  in  the  possessed  ripeness  of 
the  year,  sad  in  its  suggestion  of  decay.  The 
apples  were  red  upon  the  orchard  trees.  The 
birds  held  sad  family  consultation,  for  they 
were  to  leave  their  homes.  The  smoke  from  a 
near  fallow  dragged  no  higher  than  the  low 
tree-tops,  and  a  man  not  far  distant  shouted 
dully  to  oxen  rebelling  under  their  yoke.  And 
he  had  talked  excitedly  with  cruel  vain-glori- 


THE  GOVERNOR  31 

ousness  about  his  plans,  while  she  gave  but  lit 
tle  heed  to  what  he  said.  But  had  he  himself 
been  very  heedful  of  his  own  words  ?  Was  he 
not  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  tell 
her  all  he  really  felt,  and  to  hear  the  avowal 
that  he  was  almost  sure  must  follow — wholly 
assured  as  he  saw  her  downcast  eyes  and  sad 
preoccupation.  But  he  did  not  speak.  And 
after  he  had  gone— cruel  to  himself  as  he  had 
so  often  since  been  cruel  to  so  many — her  last 
look,  her  puzzled,  grieved,  sorrow-weighted 
look,  had  followed  him  for  days  and  months 
and  years.  And  so,  in  another  of  those  instan 
taneous,  all-embracing  flashes,  not  of  memory, 
but  of  that  sudden  expansion  and  enlighten 
ment  of  the  whole  being,  when  one  sees,  in  com 
plete  revealment,  aspects  of  life  with  which 
time  and  memory's  processes  have  nothing  to 
do,  there  came  to  the  Governor  a  vision  of 
what  had  been  and  what  might  not  be. 

"We  never  forget  such  old  friends,"  she 
said,  giving  him  her  hand.  "I  have  never 
forgotten  the  Governor." 

One  by  one  all  were  brought  up  and  pre 
sented  to  him — some  to  find  themselves  a  little 
awed  by  the  presence  of  the  man  of  whom  they 
had  heard  so  much.  Indeed  the  Governor 


32  THE  GOVERNOR 

held  quite  a  little  reception  on  the  veranda, 
shaking  hands  in  his  most  approved,  auto 
matic,  political  fashion. 

The  supper  that  night  was  widely  different 
from  the  supper  that  must  take  place  the  next 
night.  This  was  a  mere  prelude,  a  mere  fam 
ily  affair.  To-morrow  night  the  wedding 
would  be  over,  and  all  would  be  there  to  see 
the  bride  depart.  But  all  the  Joliffes  were 
there  now.  Mary,  the  oldest  daughter,  was 
there,  with  her  husband,  the  editor  from  St. 
Louis.  Evelyn,  too,  the  second  daughter — 
her  husband  an  officer  stationed  at  Fort  Lara- 
mie — had  only  arrived  that  afternoon.  Robert 
had  short  leave  and  was  home  from  Harvard  ; 
and  Martin,  seventeen,  from  Exeter.  Then 
there  were  Susan's  two  best  friends — the  tall 
blonde  from  Salem  and  the  little  brunette  from 
Baltimore — and  with  them  Lysle's  best  man 
and  two  ushers.  You  would  have  found  that 
Susan  was  there,  and  Lysle,  if  you  had  looked 
around  ;  otherwise  you  might  not  have  noticed 
them,  for  they  said  but  little. 

At  the  left  of  the  hostess — the  Governor,  of 
course,  was  at  her  right — was  the  lawyer  from 
the  village,  a  trifle  deaf,  rather  inter jectional  in 


THE  GOVERNOR  33 

style,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man,  who,  if  he  had 
made  the  law,  would  have  made  it  different  in 
several  particulars.  The  clergyman  was  not  to 
be  seen.  The  initiate  understood  that  his  wife 
would  not  let  him  come,  and  that  she  would 
not  come  without  him.  She  knew  the  diges 
tion  of  that  divine  to  a  mouthful,  and  two  such 
suppers — of  course  he  would  be  there  on  the 
following  night — would  not  do  at  all.  Every 
where,  wedged  in  here,  popping  up  there,  were 
children  of  all  ages.  The  table  was  not  of  the 
kind  that  groan  beneath  the  weight  of  what 
they  bear.  Why  should  it  ?  Had  it  not  up 
held  the  family's  hospitality  for  half  a  century  ? 
It  was  dressed  in  its  full  regalia.  The  pure 
white  cloth  lay  as  softly  as  if  snowed  upon  it, 
and  somebody,  something,  had  wrought  in  its 
web  devices  in  such  delicate  tracery  as  the 
frost,  plying  its  small  implements,  works  upon 
the  winter  panes.  It  wore  all  its  honors :  its 
old  blue,  willow-pattern  china  ;  its  glass  insig 
nia  of  the  great  order  of  Thirst ;  its  silver  dec 
orations  of  St.  Bounty.  And  what  the  table 
bore  could  not  have  been  given  in  any  scant 
menu,  with  epitaph-like,  monumental  inscrip 
tion.  The  madeira,  laid  down  with  the  port, 
by  the  grandfather  for  great  occasions — sev- 
3 


34:  THE  GOVERNOR 

eral  undecanted  bottles  lay  on  the  sideboard, 
as  thickly  encrusted  as  might  be  the  backs  of 
hippopotami  just  above  water  with  sunburned 
clay — the  madeira  trudged  down  one  side  of 
the  table,  while  the  port,  a  little  tender  as  to 
one  toe,  it  might  be  fancied,  travelled  up  the 
other.  The  two  old  decanters  who — not  which 
—had  kept  the  road  together  as  long  as  the 
table  had  done  service  as  a  table,  moved  on 
sedately,  while  their  clear  heads — the  decan 
ters  could  dispense  with  their  heads  while  on 
a  business  tour,  and  if  they  were  changed  it 
did  not  matter,  so  alike  were  their  ideas — lay 
winking  approval  at  each  other,  at  the  doctor's 
right  hand. 

Memory  is  a  very  strange  thing,  and  plays 
us  very  strange  tricks.  Apparently  without 
adequate  cause,  there  steal  at  times  into  our 
minds  half -forgotten  fancies,  long  -  unremem- 
bered  facts,  distant  scenes,  that  seemingly  have 
nothing  to  do  with  anything  about  us.  As  the 
Governor  sat  at  the  table  with  the  home-like 
realities  of  this  home  life  around  him,  he  sud 
denly  remembered — what  suggested  it  at  that 
moment  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  have 
told — that  once  when  he  was  the  country's  rep 
resentative  abroad,  he  had  been  present  at  a 


THE  GOVERNOR  35 

great  review,  held  after  a  bloody  but  successful 
war,  and  that  he  had  seen  a  regiment  march 
past,  the  gaps  made  by  the  fallen  left  in  its 
ranks.  The  aspect  of  these  broken  lines  was 
now  vivid  in  his  memory.  He  stirred  uneasily. 
What  had  reminded  him  of  all  this  ?  For  the 
first  time  he  wondered  if  it  would  have  been 
better  not  to  come.  Sitting  there  at  his  old 
rival's  table,  he  wondered  if  there  were  such 
spaces  in  his  life — spaces  where,  in  the  conflict, 
living  things  had  gone  down — living  things, 
vital  as  life  itself. 

A  dance,  a  mere  carpet  affair  which  the 
young  people  insisted  upon,  followed  the  sup 
per.  The  doctor's  remonstrance  was  of  no  ef 
fect — his  remonstrance  that  there  must  be  so 
much  to  do  to-morrow.  The  oldest  daughter 
played,  and  once  the  doctor  danced  with  Susan. 
The  girl,  the  glad  but  saddened  significance  of 
her  future  life  already  stealing  upon  her — for 
the  tender,  joyful,  tearful  to-morrow  drew  very 
near — swam  through  the  dance  as  if  in  a  happy 
dream.  But  Joliffe — what  was  there  to  com 
pare  with  his  flow  of  abundant  life,  with  the 
light  elasticity  of  his  every  motion?  To  be 
sure  his  waltzing  was  somewhat  antiquated, 
but  then  the  astonishing  thing  was  that  he 


36  THE  GOVERNOR 

waltzed  at  all.  The  dancing,  however,  of  the 
bridesmaids  and  ushers  quite  made  up  for 
what  might  be  deficient,  and  toned  down  what 
might  be  too  effusive  in  the  doctor's  perform 
ance.  The  children  danced  too,  without  re 
spect  to  time,  or  place,  or  remonstrance; 
danced  as  dance  spots  of  sunshine  upon  the 
sward  amid  the  shadows  of  breeze  -  shaken 
leaves. 

The  Governor  sat  quietly  beside  his  hostess. 
They  said  but  little.  His  thin  lips  tightened 
in  rigidity  at  times,  as  if  drawn  together  by 
the  strong  lines  of  resolve  ;  but  they  were  lax 
lines  just  then — softened  as  might  be  the 
strings  of  an  old  Cremona  left  out  in  the  dew. 

As  the  Governor  sat  saying  nothing,  he  saw 
Susie  looking  at  him  curiously.  She  had  often, 
since  her  sisters'  marriages,  been  her  mother's 
aid  at  the  frequent  entertainments  of  that  hos 
pitable  house.  No  one  as  easily  as  she  could 
put  the  awkward  at  their  ease  or  as  pleasantly 
deal  with  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  diffident ; 
but  now  she  hesitated.  She  was  accustomed 
to  the  weak  and  the  unattractive,  the  embar 
rassed  and  the  unpopular,  and  she  felt  that 
it  would  be  almost  presumption  for  her  to  as 
sume  a  moment's  care  of  anyone  so  high  and 


THE  GOVERNOR  37 

mighty  as  the  Governor.  But  something  in 
his  look — it  must  have  been  his  look,  for  no 
muscle  of  his  face  stirred — encouraged  her, 
and  she  timidly  approached. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  been  at  a 
wedding,"  he  said.  He  was  about  to  add  that 
funerals — the  funerals  of  distinguished  fellow- 
citizens — were  almost  the  only  gatherings  of 
his  kind,  not  political  or  financial,  that  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  attending.  But  he  did 
not  do  it.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  not 
sound  very  well. 

"  Oh,  it  is  to  be  so  very  simple,"  she  an 
swered  ;  "it  will  not  be  like  a  wedding  in  the 
city  at  all.  It  was  almost  too  bad  to  ask  the 
girls  to  be  bridesmaids  for  only  this." 

"They  do  not  seem  dissatisfied,"  remarked 
the  Governor,  dryly,  glancing  critically  at  the 
quick  whirling  dance. 

"Everyone  has  been  so  kind,"  responded 
Susie,  enthusiastically,  "  and  I  have  got  such 
lovely  things." 

Of  course,  thought  the  Governor,  they  al 
ways  give  presents  to  a  bride.  And  he  had 
none.  It  was  strange,  how  humiliated  he  felt. 
However,  he  remembered  with  an  altogether 
disproportionate  joy,  considering  the  trifling 


38  THE  GOVERNOR 

nature  of  his  difficulty,  that  here  was  some 
thing  that  could  be  remedied. 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  was  coming  to  a 
wedding,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  and  I  have 
nothing.  I  hope — I  believe — that  I  am  none 
the  less  welcome." 

Susie  grew  red  with  sudden  confusion. 
Speaking  of  her  happiness,  she  almost  felt 
that  she  was  sharing  it  with  others,  and  in  her 
great  gladness  and  friendliness  for  all,  she  had 
spoken  quite  frankly  and  without  thought. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  confusedly,  "  I  only 
spoke  of  them  because — because  they  were  a 
part  of  the  wedding." 

"Won't  you  show  them  to  me?"  said  the 
Governor. 

He  rose  and  followed  her  to  a  room  where, 
on  assembled  tables,  the  offerings  to  the  bride 
were  displayed.  There  was  the  silver  given  by 
Joliffe — forks  and  spoons  in  shining  array; 
there  were  the  silver  tea-pot,  the  cream-pitcher, 
the  sugar-bowl  from  her  mother  ;  there  were  a 
salad-spoon  and  fork  from  an  uncle,  and  a  soup- 
ladle  from  the  lawyer.  There  was  Lysle's  gift, 
a  gold  necklace  with  one  small  gem  at  the 
clasp.  Lysle's  father  and  mother  were  dead, 
and  his  only  living  relative  was  an  ancient  and 


THE  GOVERNOR  39 

wealthy  maiden  aunt,  an  aunt  of  very  aristo 
cratic  connections  and  possessed  of  a  somewhat 
mysterious,  but  unquestionably  all-puissant  in 
fluence,  that  it  was  hoped  at  one  time  might 
do  great  things  for  him  ;  she  had  not  entirely 
approved  of  the  marriage,  and  she  now  sent  a 
bronze  thermometer.  There  were  the  presents 
from  the  bridesmaids :  a  silver-backed  mirror, 
and  a  fan  with  silver  monogram.  There  were 
the  presents  from  the  "best  man"  and  the 
ushers :  a  silver  jug,  silver  candlesticks,  and 
a  silver  inkstand.  Then  there  were  bronzes, 
books,  etchings,  a  throng  of  pretty  things  of 
twisted  brass,  and  carved  wood,  and  dainty 
stuffs  from  cousins,  friends,  and  even  from  old 
servants.  It  was  not  a  very  grand  display- 
all  could  not  have  cost  very  many  hundreds  of 
dollars,  and  if  the  Governor  had  estimated 
what  he  saw  at  its  pecuniary  value  he  would 
not  have  greatly  considered  it.  But  he  saw 
the  radiant,  triumphant  joy  of  the  girl ;  he 
noticed  with  what  pride  she  called  his  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  she  had  received  three 
sets  of  coffee-spoons  and  duplicate  sugar-tongs 
— saw  her  satisfaction  with  the  somewhat  mea 
gre  collection,  and  it  seemed  to  him  precious 
beyond  price.  He  thought  of  dusty  piles  of 


40  THE  GOVERNOR 

securities  in  dark  bank  vaults  ;  thought  of  hide 
ous  buildings  in  crowded  city  neighborhoods  ; 
thought  of  all  the  wealth  he  possessed,  and 
wondered,  if  these  few  gifts  could  evoke  such 
pleasure,  what  could  not  be  done  with  his  huge 
slumbering  fortune,  busy  even  while  it  slum 
bered  in  gathering  what  for  the  instant  seemed 
like  usurious  spoil;  wondered  if  it  were  not 
possible  to  draw  a  better  revenue  from  some 
new  use  of  his  vast  capital  than  was  to  be  ob 
tained  from  the  very  closest,  richest,  "  trust." 
He  had  never  thought  anything  of  the  kind  be 
fore,  and  it  struck  him  with  the  force  of  a  new 
idea.  He  thought  that  he  would  like  to  buy 
her  something  rare,  dazzling,  wonderful ;  hold 
it  before  her  astonished  eyes,  and  say  to  her 
that  it  was  hers.  Then  he  wondered  if,  after 
all,  it  would  give  her  more  pleasure  than  some 
of  the  trifles  that  he  saw. 

"  And  shall  you  always  live  here  ?  "  he  asked, 
when  they  had  finished  the  inspection. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  answered.  "  We  are  to 
live  in  New  York.  Jack  is  in  business  there." 

"And  what —     •"  began  the  Governor. 

"  He  is  the  cashier  of  a  great  firm  of  brokers 
in  Wall  Street." 

"  Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  firm  ?  " 


THE  GOVERNOR  41 

"  Kyde  &  Broxtowe,"  she  answered,  proudly. 
"  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  them.  Jack  tells 
me  they  are  very  well  known." 

"  Eyde  &  Broxtowe,"  repeated  the  Governor, 
looking  up  with  a  sharp  glance  of  surprise. 
"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  the  firm  of  Kyde  & 
Broxtowe." 

"  They  have  such  confidence  in  Jack,"  she 
went  on,  "  in  his  integrity,  in  his  ability ; " 
she  thought  she  had  heard  these  words  used 
in  connection  with  some  one  who  held  an  office 
of  responsibility,  and  she  now  rather  shyly  em 
ployed  them.  "  They  wanted — were  going  to 
take  him  into  the  firm,  but  one  of  the  troubles 
came  that  come  so  suddenly  there,  and  they 
got  into  difficulties  and  had  to  be  helped  by 
some  one,  a  great  capitalist  —  Jack  does  not 
know  who — and  now  they  can  do  nothing  them 
selves,  and  so  can  make  no  change." 

"  It  is  strange  I  have  not  seen  him.  I  have 
been  at  Eyde  &  Broxtowe's  often." 

"  He  has  seen  you.    He  told  me  so  to-night." 

"Possibly,"  responded  the  Governor,  ab 
sently.  "  I  suppose  he  was  in  the  outer  offices 
and — and  I  am  afraid  that  I  do  not  notice 
very  much." 

There  was  silence  while  Susie  made  the  last 


4:2  THE  GOVERNOR 

of  a  long  series  of  experiments  in  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  presents.  The  photograph  frame 
from  her  old  school-teacher  certainly  looked 
best  behind  the  alligator  skin  portfolio  from 
her  Sunday-school  class. 

"  And  you  are  going  to  live  in  New  York  ?  " 
said  the  Governor,  at  last.  "How  do  you 
think  you  will  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it,"  she  answered. 
"  We  have  taken  a  flat.  It  is  pretty  high  up, 
but  I  tell  Jack  that  we'll  see  more  sky,  and  that, 
will  be  nice  for  me,  for  I'm  from  the  country. 
We  shall  be  very  comfortable,  and  then  some 
day  he  will  be  taken  into  the  firm,  and  then 
we  shall  be  rich." 

"  He  wishes  to  be  a  member  of  the  firm  ?  " 
asked  the  Governor. 

"  Oh,  if  he  could  be,  it  would  make  him  so 
happy !  You  see  everyone  has  thought  that 
we  ought  not  to  be  married  now — and  though 
they  have  all  been  perfect  about  it  at  home, 
still  I  can  see  that  they  are  a  little  afraid — but 
of  course  if  he  were  that,  it  would  settle  every 
thing." 

"It  would  settle  everything,"  repeated  the 
Governor,  slowly. 

She  sighed  slightly,  and  the  first  look  of  sad- 


THE  GOVERNOR  43 

ness  the  Governor  had  seen  in  her  face  lay  for 
a  moment  on  her  delicate  features,  but  this 
quickly  gave  way  to  a  smile,  and  the  Governor 
turning,  discovered  Lysle  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere," 
he  said  to  Susie.  "  They  are  waiting  for  you 
for  a  dance." 

"  I  was  showing  the — our  presents,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  the  Governor.  "  They  are 
very  beautiful.  But  do  not  let  me  keep  you 
any  longer." 

He  followed  her  as  she  walked  to  the  door, 
and  when  she  turned  to  see  if  he  was  not  com 
ing  with  them  she  found  that  he  was  quite 
near  her. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  Governor,  somewhat 
stiffly,  "  you  have  youth  and  you  have  health, 
and  you  have,"  he  paused  and  glanced  at 
Susie,  "  you  have  the  best  this  world  can  give. 
You  have  the  three  simple  elements  of  happi 
ness,  by  no  means  as  complex  a  thing  as  some 
suppose.  Remember  this,  that  what  you  have 
now  is  more  than  you  can  ever  reasonably 
expect  to  attain — can  ever  attain,  no  matter 
with  what  expectation.  He  who  in  this  world 
does  only  what  the  world  would  call  wise  is  a 


44  THE  GOVERNOR 

fool— a  fool.  A  penny  spent,  sir,  is  a  penny 
gained." 

These  were  singular  words  for  the  Governor. 
They  were  simple,  plain  words  for  one  famous 
for  his  eloquence  ;  they  were  strangely  unprac 
tical  words  for  one  pointed  out  as  the  very 
type  of  success  ;  they  were  even  obscure,  con 
tradictory  words  to  be  uttered  by  one  so  cool- 
headed,  cold-hearted  as  he  ;  but  they  were  the 
words  the  Governor  used,  turning  sharply  on 
his  heel  when  he  was  done. 

"  Go  and  join  the  dance,"  he  added,  a  trifle 
peremptorily,  turning  again  to  Lysle  and  Susie, 
who  stood  gazing  at  him  in  great  astonishment, 
"  and  would  you  be  kind  enough  to  have  them 
send  my  man  Williams  to  me  ?  " 

Williams  found  the  Governor  in  what  Joliffe 
called  the  "  study."  He  was  writing,  and  from 
the  yellow  paper  with  printed  top  and  ruled 
lines  that  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  was  preparing  a  telegram. 
It  was  a  long  despatch ;  he  pinned  together 
four  sheets,  before  he  affixed  his  signature. 

"  This,"  he  said,  handing  the  papers  to  Will 
iams,  "  must  go  to  Eyde  &  Broxtowe  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  Do  you  know  where 
the  telegraph  office  is  ? — you  can  find  out  and 


THE  GOVERNOR  45 

be  there  when  it  opens.     And  be  careful  to  let 
no  one  know  what  you  have." 

"You  see,  Governor,"  said  Joliffe,  very 
much  out  of  breath  from  the  dance,  as  he  ap 
proached  his  guest  a  little  later;  "there  isn't 
much  wisdom  in  it  all,  but  much  happiness." 

"But  much  happiness,"  repeated  the  Gov 
ernor,  "  and  that  is  something  that  cannot  al 
ways  be  won  by  wisdom." 

They  stood  for  an  instant  silent. 

"  You  look  tired,"  said  the  doctor,  glancing 
at  the  other.  "  Shall  I  take  you  to  your 
room?" 

"  Yes,  the  day  has  been  rather  too  much  for 
me,  more  than  I  thought  any  day  could  ever 
be." 

"  See,"  said  the  doctor,  as  the  two  men  en 
tered  a  room  above  stairs,  "  this  is  in  the  old 
part  of  the  house.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
you  knew  this  place." 

They  stood  for  an  instant  looking  curiously 
at  each  other  in  the  strong  glow  of  the  lamp. 

"Joliffe,"  said  the  Governor,  slowly,  at  last. 
"We  didn't  get  on  very  well  when  we  were 
boys." 

The  doctor  did  not  answer. 


46  THE  GOVERNOR 

11  Possibly  I  was  the  most  to  blame,"  contin 
ued  the  Governor.  "  But  110  matter  now.  We 
have  come  to  an  age  when  we  have  little  but 
our  past.  Let  us  try  to  forget  what  was  un 
pleasant  in  it." 

Joliffe  understood  the  halting  speech — al 
most  the  first  of  retraction  that  had  ever  passed 
those  rigid  lips — and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  said  both,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  they  were  friends. 

The  doctor  tramped  out  of  the  room,  shut 
the  door  with  a  slam,  coughed,  and  went  down 
the  stairs  with  even  more  noise  than  usual. 

The  Governor  stood  still  in  deep  thought. 
Had  he  not  in  substance  asked  his  old  rival's 
pardon  ?  It  certainly  was  not  a  thing  he  had 
expected  to  do  when  he  started  for  his  old 
home.  But  he  felt  the  better  for  it.  He 
stepped  to  the  window.  Indeed  he  knew  the 
place  now.  It  was  his  own  old  room.  The 
moon  had  just  risen  and  the  broad  stretch  of 
country  lay  before  him.  It  was  changed  of 
course.  Clumps  of  trees  had  disappeared. 
Here  and  there  buildings  he  had  never  before 
seen  were  visible  in  the  cold,  clear,  white  light. 
He,  however,  recognized  much — remembered 
detail  upon  detail.  The  line  of  the  hills  lay 


THE  GOVERNOR  47 

there  delicate,  almost  pathetic,  against  the  sky. 
The  sweep  of  the  river  was  there,  always  the 
same.  But  he  had  never  felt  anything  like 
this  before  —  peace-giving  and  with  soothing 
promise.  Many  and  many  a  time  had  he  looked 
out  that  window,  the  phantasmagoria  of  hope 
in  full  whirl,  with  inexperienced  ambition  throb 
bing  with  quick  grasping  desires  for  imagined, 
uncompr eh  ended  things ;  and  now  he  stood 
there  with  the  bitterness  of  victory  at  his  heart 
— stood  there  the  possessor  of  the  pieces  of 
silver,  the  prices  of  his  own  self-betrayal.  The 
realization  of  the  real  worthlessness  of  all 
things  won  was  upon  him — the  realization  so 
often,  if  we  could  but  know  it,  panged  with 
pain  such  as  defeat,  that  may  leave  us  our 
ideals,  never  brings. 

At  first  the  sound  of  music  from  the  distant 
dancing-room,  sad  as  a  modern  waltz  can  be — 
is  it  typical  of  our  half-hearted  joyousness  that 
there  must  even  be  a  plaint  in  our  dance  mu 
sic  ? — kept  him  awake  ;  but  even  when  the 
music  ceased,  his  hurrying  thoughts  prevented 
sleep.  It  was  well  on  toward  morning  before 
he  fell  into  what  was  even  then  a  broken  slum 
ber.  Who  can  give  account  of  the  occult  in 
fluences  that  mingled  the  experiences  of  the 


48  THE  GOVERNOR 

day  with  his  last  waking  ideas,  and  filled  that 
strange  chamber  in  the  house  of  life  with  his 
dream  ?  He  was  in  the  old  orchard  again,  the 
late  golden-rod  glowing  in  the  sunlight ;  the 
ferns  shrinking  in  the  shadows.  But  the  peace 
of  a  great  contentment  was  upon  him,  for  he 
had  asked  and  been  answered,  and  the  world 
had  nothing  more  to  give.  No  longer  was 
there  any  haste,  or  restlessness,  or  the  leap  of 
mounting  ambition.  Life  was  no  longer  a 
means,  a  mere  opportunity ;  it  was  an  attain 
ment,  an  end  adequate  in  and  of  itself,  explan 
atory,  all-sufficient.  He  felt  what  he  had  never 
known — the  free  spaciousness  of  youth.  The 
lengthening  vista  of  coming  years  was  no  longer 
a  succession  of  prisoning  spaces  ;  it  was  a 
sweep  of  graceful  arches,  each  in  itself  beauti 
ful,  bending  over  a  progress,  the  end  of  which 
was  the  best  that  life  could  give.  And  now 
scene  and  circumstance  changed  with  quick 
magical  craft.  It  was  his  wedding-day.  There 
were  many  people  ;  some  of  them  with  the  faces 
seen  in  the  evening.  There  was  the  bride, 
white-robed,  silent,  a  little  frightened ;  there  he 
was  himself,  awkward,  self-important,  proud, 
happy.  And  then  the  church,  cool,  dim,  shad 
ow-trodden;  the  wedding  march  wandering 


THE  GOVERNOR  49 

from  stiff  pew  to  stiff  pew,  stealing,  pealing 
along  the  narrow  aisle  and  low  gallery.  And 
from  outside  came  the  glad  laughter  of  the 
tumbling  bell.  Now  came  years,  changing  in 
season,  but,  as  the  course  of  nature,  fully  fore 
seen,  assuring,  satisfying.  Children  were  born 
and  one  died,  but  a  kindly  growth  covered  the 
wound  as  the  closing  wood  grows  where  the 
lightning  stroke  has  torn  the  green  tree  trunk. 
And  he  grew  old — for  time  and  place  are  but 
for  the  fleshly  self,  they  have  no  denizenship 
in  the  realm  of  dreams — he  grew  old  and  by 
some  strange  law,  common  in  that  strange 
country,  he  was — Joliffe,  strong,  hearty,  as  he 
had  seen  him.  And  there  was  talk  of  another 
wedding — a  daughter  this  time.  Gently  as 
comes  the  remembrance  of  some  evanescent 
perfume,  there  came  to  him  memories  of  his 
own  love-making ;  and  he  watched  that  old 
drudge,  unoriginating  nature,  make  this  repe 
tition  without  bitterness,  for  he  felt  that  he, 
too,  had  had  his  day,  and  that  his  day  had  not 
been  wasted.  But  now,  most  surprising  of  all, 
there  came  to  the  house  a  man  of  the  same 
age,  rich,  famous,  alone,  who  was  also  himself ; 
and  then,  in  strange  dual  existence,  he  com 
pared  each. self  with  the  other — the  one  in  the 
4 


50  THE  GOVERNOR 

lush  meadow  where  the  grasses  are,  and  the 
other,  footsore  upon  some  barren  place  where 
the  treading  crowd  wear  smoother  the  well- 
worn  stones.  And — the  morning  light  was 
shining  full  in  the  room  and  in  incomplete 
consciousness, 

"  Half  in  a  dreme  not  fully  well  awake," 

gradually,  it  almost  seemed,  the  figments  of 
the  night  stole  from  him,  and  with  sharp  an 
guish  he  found  himself — himself.  Where  were 
resolution,  self-confidence,  persistence,  insist 
ence  ;  where  the  consciousness  of  strength,  of 
eloquence  of  speech;  where  wisdom  born  of 
experience  in  affairs ;  where  the  arts  of  inter 
course,  the  indescribable  power  of  influencing 
men,  the  joy  in  large,  comprehending  thought, 
in  forceful  character?  What  were  wealth, 
power,  fame — what  in  comparison  with  wife 
and  children  and  the  accumulated  happiness, 
sorrow-enriched,  that  is  the  abiding  atmos 
phere,  the  vital  air  of  family  and  home  ?  What 
was  it — the  rapture  in  some  crowning  moment  of 
great  achievement — what  was  it,  compared  with 
the  gifts  ever  recurring,  the  unchanging  reali 
ties  of  man's  natural,  wholesome,  common  life  ? 
And  he  might  have  had  all — all  that  he  now 


THE  GOVERNOR  51 

knew  was  so  much  —  if  he  had  but  spoken. 
As  he  thought  then,  so  he  thought  now,  that 
the  answer  must  have  been  "yes,"  and  the 
belief  was  agonizing  to  him.  If  he  could  only 
know  that  it  could  not  have  been;  that  no 
matter  what  he  had  said,  the  past  could  not 
have  been  different.  To  have  held  happiness 
within  his  grasp,  and  to  have  thrown  it  away ! 
If  he  could  only  know  that  the  meeting  under 
the  old  apple-trees  could  have  brought  him 
nothing,  then  it  seemed  that  what  remained  of 
life  might  be  borne. 

A  stone  wall  bounded  the  orchard,  an  irreg 
ular  mosaic  of  browns  and  blues  and  grays. 
Tall  weeds  grew  plentifully  beside  it,  grasses 
sprung  from  its  crevices,  moss  covered  its  bro 
ken  face,  vines  hung  over  it,  and  even  here  and 
there  the  branches  rested  on  it.  The  wall  could 
hardly  be  seen  at  all  in  summer,  but  it  was 
autumn  now  and  the  rain  had  beaten  down  the 
stalks  and  scattered  the  leaves,  and  in  places  it 
was  wholly  uncovered.  The  Governor  leaned 
upon  its  rounded  top  and  looked  across  the 
ribbed  fields.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
been  almost  forgotten  at  the  house  in  the  ex 
citement  of  preparation,  and  not  wishing  to 


52  THE  GOVERNOR 

intrude  upon  the  peculiarly  personal  interests 
of  the  time,  he  wandered  forth  alone.  The 
morning  was  bright ;  sad,  however,  with  that 
sadness  felt  in  the  brightest  autumn  day. 
Each  tree,  larger  and  more  gnarled,  perhaps, 
than  when  he  had  last  seen  it,  was  rich  with 
memories ;  each  bowlder  softened  with  an  as 
sociation.  The  bright,  richly  colored,  fallen 
leaves  seemed  embroidered  upon  the  dark  tis 
sue  of  the  grass.  The  polished  apples  were 
bright  in  the  sun.  He  strolled  along  a  path — 
one  of  those  paths  turning  here  and  there  as 
the  accordant  fancies  of  the  first  passers  made 
it,  kept  worn  as  others  had  followed  with  rou 
tine  feet — and  coming  to  the  wall  he  rested  his 
arms  upon  it  and  looked  wearily  beyond.  As 
he  stood  there  he  felt  that  his  life,  too,  had 
encountered  a  sudden  barrier,  over  which  he 
could  only  wistfully  gaze. 

He  turned  quickly  as  he  heard  a  light  foot 
fall  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress. 

It  was  the  woman  who  was  in  his  thoughts 
— the  woman  whom  he  had  loved  so  long  ago. 
Again  they  were  together,  in  an  autumn  or 
chard,  and  after  forty  years. 

"I  missed  you,"  she  said.  "It  is  hardly 
hospitable  that  you  should  be  left  alone." 


THE  GOVERNOR  53 

"  One  is  'never  alone,"  said  the  Governor, 
"where  much  has  happened.  I  was  never 
less  alone.  I  am  in  the  midst  of  many  mem 
ories." 

She  said  nothing.  Were  her  thoughts,  with 
his,  in  the  tract  known  only  to  them  ? 

In  the  strange  sameness  of  the  situation  he 
felt  almost  as  if  he  were  again  in  his  unworn 
youth.  But  he  looked  down  upon  his  corded, 
blue-veined  hand,  rough-cast  with  years,  hard 
of  grain,  it  seemed,  as  the  stone  upon  which  it 
rested ;  he  glanced  at  her,  and  saw  the  gray 
threads  in  the  dark  hair,  saw  the  tracery  of 
time  upon  the  white  forehead,  and  he  was  old 
again ;  the  forty  years  had  passed. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  distant,  indestructible 
past  must  permit  to  them  both,  frankness  and 
absolute  directness  of  speech,  and  he  hastened 
to  say  what  it  had  been  in  his  heart  to  say 
since  daybreak. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"Are  you — are  you  wholly  happy?"  he 
asked,  slowly. 

"  Wholly,"  she  answered,  looking  up  in  some 
surprise  from  a  branch  of  ruddy  leaves  which 
she  had  gathered. 


54  THE  GOVERNOR 

"  You  remember  the  last  time  w^  walked  to 
gether  ?  "  he  asked,  abruptly,  hesitatingly,  as 
he  had  spoken  before. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  breaking  some  dry 
twigs  from  the  branch.  "  That  was  a  long 
time  ago.  We  were  very  young  then." 

"  Perhaps  too  young  to  know,"  said  the  Gov 
ernor. 

She  did  not  speak. 

lie  felt  strangely  ;  as  if  scarce  naturally  ex 
istent.  The  visual  scene  seemed  trembling,  dis 
solving,  to  be  hardly  as  real  as  his  vision  of  the 
night.  The  aspects  of  the  place  and  of  the  day 
were  the  same  ;  but  was  he  looking  at  that  day 
long  gone,  or  at  this  through  the  glimmering, 
misty  atmosphere  of  the  past?  He  too  was 
silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  thinking  sadly 
that  it  was  not  a  little  strange  that  it  was  only 
now,  and  with  weakening  voice  and  lax  lips,  in 
passionless  and  measured  accents,  that  he  was 
to  tell  his  love-story — a  love-story  that  had 
waited  nearly  half  a  century  for  its  denouement. 
"We  are  so  old,"  he  continued  at  last,  "that 
we  can  talk  of  what  has  been,  almost  as  if  we 
were  already — somewhere  else." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  loved  you  once." 


THE  GOVERNOR  55 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  Then." 

"  I  thought  so." 

"  More  than  all  else,  except  myself." 

"As  you  say,"  she  said,  gently,  and  with  a 
quick  glance  toward  her  home,  "we  can  indeed 
talk  as  if  we  were — somewhere  else.  Why  did 
you  not  tell  me — then  ?  " 

"  Because  " — he  spoke  with  the  even,  un 
broken  tone  of  quiet  resignation — "because  I 
was  mistaken.  Tell  me — we  may  say  anything 
now — if  I  had  told  you  then,  would  your  an 
swer  ha,ve  been — yes  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  replied,  with  the  serene  laugh 
of  a  woman  so  strong  in  a  present  and  long- 
abiding  love,  that  all  else  is  as  nothing.  "  We 
were  very  young  then." 

She  broke  another  twig  from  the  branch, 
shook  it,  that  any  of  the  autumn-loosened  leaves 
might  fall,  and  glanced  at  her  companion. 

"  I  am  afraid  they  will  need  me  at  the 
house,"  she  said.  "Will  you  not  come  back 
with  me  ?  " 

She  turned  to  go,  but  the  Governor,  with  his 
arms  again  on  the  wall,  remained  gazing  over 
the  barren  fields ;  barren,  but  not  in  the  ster 
ility  incapable  of  promise ;  barren,  but  still 


56  THE  GOVERNOR 

covered  with  the  stubble  left  by  the  gathered 
harvest. 

The  wedding  was  over.  It  was  singularly 
like  the  one  in  the  Governor's  dream.  The 
faces  were  a  little  clearer,  the  forms  slightly 
more  distinct ;  that  was  about  all. 

The  church — it  was  a  small  brick  place,  with 
meagre  stone  corners  and  slender,  small-paned 
windows,  and  a  small  stone  steeple,  through 
the  openings  of  which  the  bell  could  be  seen 
from  the  outside — the  church,  innocent  of  the 
adornments  non-secular  architecture  now  per 
mits  itself,  and  not  unlike  the  rigid  houses  bor 
dering  the  village  street,  could  they  be  dressed 
in  prim,  Sunday  array — the  church,  not  unpict- 
uresque  even  in  its  unpretentiousness,  for  time, 
dulling  and  staining  the  once  bright-red  brick 
into  pleasing  consonance  of  tone,  had,  it 
seemed,  also  softened  and  rounded  its  abrupt 
angles  and  sharp  edges,  an  effect  aided  not  a 
little  by  a  Virginia  creeper,  now  gorgeous  in 
the  livery  of  the  passing  year,  that  had  clam 
bered  up  the  front,  stretched  across  the  slate 
roof  and,  in  graceful  tendrils,  stealing  through 
the  openings  in  the  belfry,  played  in  the  gen 
tle  air  as  the  tentacles  of  some  huge,  resplend- 


THE  GOVERNOR  57 

ent  marine  creature,  hidden  in  some  recess, 
might  sway  in  a  falling  tide — the  church  was 
crowded,  packed.  All  the  village  had  turned 
out,  and  there  were  many  guests  from  away. 
The  church  could  not  hold  half  that  came,  and 
many  stood  along  the  narrow,  stone  walk  and 
on  the  leaf -strewn  grass.  But  all  saw  the  bride 
and  were  accordingly  satisfied.  The  influential 
female  relative  had  relented  at  the  last  moment, 
and,  arriving  on  the  morning  train,  now  occu 
pied  the  place  of  honor — a  large  front  pew — 
with  the  Governor.  As  the  wedding  march 
sounded  from  the  organ — the  wedding  march 
that  has  become  almost  as  much  a  part  of  a 
wedding  as  the  veil  and  ring,  the  march  that 
few  hear  without  anticipatory  tremor  or  retro 
spective  thrill — all  seemed,  for  an  instant,  as 
all  had  seemed  to  the  Governor,  in  the  orchard, 
but  a  continuation  of  his  dream.  Then  the  in 
fluential  female  relative  moved  uneasily — she 
was  truly  not 

"such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on," 

and  he  knew  that  he  was  awake. 

The  wedding  was  over.     The  bride  had  been 
driven  to  the  house,  and  now,  in  its  largest  room, 


58  THE  GOVERNOR 

she  stood  against  a  background  of  flowers  and 
foliage,  receiving  the  wedding  guests.  One  by 
one  they  passed  before  her,  many  among  them 
who  had  known  her  as  a  baby,  as  a  child,  as  a 
young  girl — saying  their  little  speeches,  some 
awkwardly  enough  perhaps,  but  not  one  with 
out  earnest  desire  that  all  happiness  should  be 
hers.  Even  the  influential  female  relative, 
evidently  moved  by  her  youth  and  beauty,  had 
stiffly  embraced  her.  The  room  was  so  full 
that  it  was  difficult  to  make  way  through  it. 
The  press  about  the  bride  was  so  great  that 
only  occasionally  could  anyone,  not  near,  catch 
even  a  glimpse  of  her  white  dress.  And  then 
the  crowd  swayed  and  in  strong  current  seemed 
to  sweep  the  Governor  from  where  he  stood  by 
the  door,  swiftly  along,  and  he  suddenly  found 
himself  before  Susie.  The  stillness  that  at 
once  settled  on  those  about  him  half  appalled 
him.  Something  was  expected  of  him,  he  un 
derstood  that,  but  in  his  trepidation  he  could 
hardly  command  himself  enough  to  be  able  to 
realize  what. 

There  was  quick  laughter,  almost  a  burst  of 
applause. 

He  did  not  know  how  he  did  it — he  hardly 
knew  at  the  time  that  he  had  done  it — but  he 


THE  GOVERNOR  59 

had  kissed  the  bride.     He  had  done  it  and  he 
was  proud  of  it. 

At  the  wedding  supper  the  Governor  made 
the  speech  when  they  drank  Susie's  health,  and 
although  no  busy  stenographers  were  there  to 
catch  the  words  as  they  fell,  and  send  them 
swarming  along  the  spider-web  wires  of  this 
over -vexed  earth — he  never  spoke  better  in  his 
life. 

Lysle  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  stairs  as 
Susie  threw  her  bouquet  among  the  crowd  in 
the  hall,  and  such  uproar  as  always  follows 
that  event  had  not  subsided  when  one  of  the 
ushers  handed  him  a  telegram  which  had  just 
been  received  by  a  servant.  He  opened  it, 
read  it,  and  handed  it  to  Susie. 

It  ran  : 

"We  are  happy  to  say  that  the  arrange 
ments  for  partnership  of  which  we  spoke  to  you 
can  now  be  easily  consummated.  See  us  im 
mediately  on  your  return. 

"BYDE  &  BEOXTOWE." 

The  Governor  stood  by  the  doorway,  awk 
wardly  holding  an  old  satin  slipper  which  some 
one  had  thrust  into  his  hand — why,  he  did  not 


60  THE  GOVERNOR 

know.  He  looked  up  when  Lysle  began  read 
ing  the  despatch.  He  watched  Susie  take  it ; 
he  watched  her  as  she  read,  and  saw  the  light 
of  infinite  happiness  dawn  in  her  face,  saw  the 
girl  as  she  turned  and  cast  her  arms  around 
her  husband's  neck  ;  saw  Lysle,  for  they  must 
go,  since  time  and  tide  and  train  wait  for  no 
one — not  even  a  bride — toss  the  despatch  with 
glad  gesture  to  the  doctor  ;  and,  as  the  carriage 
which  bore  so  much  away  started,  following 
the  example  of  the  others,  he  threw  the  old 
slipper  after  them  with  such  surprisingly  good 
aim  that  it  fell  directly  on  its  roof. 

The  city  again. 

It  is  early  evening,  but  the  darkness  is  as  in 
tense  as  it  will  be  at  midnight.  The  rain  falls 
in  persistent,  insistent  drizzle.  Each  light  is 
the  nucleus  of  a  long,  luminous,  cometic  tail 
streaming  over  the  swimming  pavement.  In 
the  streets  around  the  great  railway-station  the 
confusion  of  cabs  and  omnibuses  is  chaotic  ;  on 
the  sidewalks  and  in  the  waiting-rooms  human 
ity  is  anarchic. 

The  Governor,  jostled  by  the  passengers  eager 
in  the  first  rush  of  their  enfranchisement, 
slowly  made  his  way  down  the  long  platform 


THE  GOVERNOR  61 

at  which  the  train  had  stopped.  Usually  he 
travelled  in  a  special  car,  and  attentive  officials 
waited  upon  him  at  every  step,  but  as  he  had 
gone  upon  this  journey,  so  he  returned — un 
heralded,  unreceived,  and  with  only  Williams 
for  attendant.  He  walked  the  whole  length  of 
the  huge,  resonant  building,  his  eyes  downcast 
or  fixed  upon  the  great  clock  at  one  end.  Since 
he  had  seen  it  last  the  hour-hand  had  travelled 
around  the  face  hardly  half  a  dozen  times,  and 
yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  away 
from  the  city  for  many  days.  As  he  approached 
the  iron  railing  that  crossed  the  broad,  nagged 
walk,  a  young  man  stepped  quickly  through  the 
opened  gate  and  walked  rapidly  toward  him. 

"  We  telegraphed  you,  Governor,"  he  said 
hastily,  "  but  couldn't  reach  you  before  you 
started.  We  tried  to  catch  you  on  the  train, 
but  I  suppose  it  was  no  use." 

He  was  the  Governor's  private  secretary,  the 
man  who  knew  the  most  of  his  affairs,  the  man 
whom  he  trusted  as  much  as  he  had  ever  trusted 
anyone. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Warner  ?  "  asked  the 
Governor,  detecting  an  unwonted  excitement 
in  the  secretary's  usually  measured  and  inex 
pressive  voice. 


62  THE  GOVERNOR 

"  You  haven't  heard,  sir !  There  hasn't  been 
such  a  day  on  the  Street  for  years.  They  are 
waiting  at  the  house  for  you  now." 

"Who?" 

"  It's  all  out  about  the  syndicate — came  out 
this  morning — how,  no  one  knows.  They  all 
want  time — they  all  want  money — they  all 
want  everything." 

The  Governor  coughed. 

"The  presidents  of  three  railroads  and  two 
banks  have  been  waiting  for  you  ever  since 
dark,"  the  secretary  suggested  nervously.  He 
had  been  brought  up  in  a  broker's  office,  and 
the  great  "  King  "  of  the  "  Street  "—his 

"round 
And  top  of  sovereignty  " — 

inspired  him  with  a  reverence  that  no  crowned 
monarch  could  have  excited  in  that  strictly 
American  heart. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Governor,  abstractedly. 
"  Tell  Williams  to  see  about  the  luggage  and 
have  the  carriage  brought  up." 

Warner  hastened  to  obey,  and  the  Governor 
remained  standing  in  the  draughty  passageway. 
The  arrivals  by  the  train  had  dispersed  and  he 
was  almost  alone.  Two  men  who  had  come  in 


THE  GOVERNOR  63 

hurriedly  from  the  street  stood  beneath  the 
flaring  gaslight.  One  held  a  newspaper  that 
he  had  just  bought,  and  both  were  looking 
eagerly  at  it. 

"It's  the  last  edition,"  said  one,  "  but  there's 
nothing  new." 

"  He's  still  away,"  said  the  other ;  "just like 
the  sly  old  fox,  to  keep  himself  where  no  one 
can  get  at  him.  He's  managed  it  well.  It's 
the  long-headedest  scoop  that's  been  made  in 
my  time." 

"  To  think  of  a  whole  country  waiting  for 
him — for  when  the  Street  is  excited  the  whole 
country  is  crazy  from  Boston  to  San  Francisco. 
He  has  surpassed  himself.  He  commands  suc 
cess  ;  he  compels  fate.  Happy — I'd  give  a 
year  of  my  life  for  a  moment  of  his  to-night." 

"  How  much  do  you  suppose  he'll  make  ?  " 
asked  the  other  in  awed  tones. 

"  Millions  !  and  he  has  millions  now.  "What 
can  he  do  with  them  ?  " 

"Buy  another  railroad  or  another  party — or 
his  soul  back  from  the  devil." 

And  all  this  the  Governor  heard  or  half- 
heard. 

The  secretary  returned,  and  shaking  off  the 
rain-drops,  he  pointed  through  the  doorway  to 


64:  THE  GOVERNOR 

the  carriage  with  its  flashing  lamps.  A  sharp 
gust  of  wind  bustling  along  the  street  stirred 
the  uneasy  gaslights.  The  dull,  ominous, 
threatening  roar  of  the  great  city  fell  upon  the 
Governor's  ears.  Was  he  thinking  of  the  men 
anxiously  waiting  his  coming,  as  he  stood  gaz 
ing  into  the  darkness  ?  was  he  thinking  of  the 
throbbing  city  where,  during  the  day,  his  name 
had  been  uttered  with  wonder,  with  praises, 
with  curses,  by  so  many  tongues  :  where  it  had 
appeared  weighted  with  so  much  significance, 
upon  so  many  printed  pages  ?  It  was  strange, 
but  as  he  stood  there — there,  at  what  the  world 
would  call  the  most  successful  moment  of  his 
most  successful  life,  he  only  thought  of  the 
amber,  autumn  light  falling  through  twisted 
branches  upon  a  young  girl's  face.  It  was  a 
bright  vision,  and  as  it  slowly  faded,  the  night 
seemed  even  more  dark,  more  bitter  than  be 
fore. 

"  Yes,"  he  thought,  remembering  vaguely 
what  he  had  said  to  Joliffe.  "  Success  is  the 
only  revenge  that  we  can  take  upon  the  world, 
but- 
Splashing  through  the  muddy  pools,  the 
horses  made  their  way  down  the  desolate  and 
deserted  avenue. 


THE  GOVERNOR  65 

"  Governor,"  said  the  secretary,  as  the  car 
riage  drew  up  before  a  great  house  with  great 
darkened  windows,  "  you  have  reached  home." 

But  the  Governor  did  not  speak  or  stir. 
5 


A   DEEDLESS   DRAMA 


A   DEEDLESS   DRAMA 

"  "What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

BUBNS.— "  Address  to  the  Unco  Guid." 


((  npHE   mail,"  said  Pruden,  adjusting  his 
I       gold  eye-glasses  more  accurately  upon 
his  nose,  "  seems  unusually  heavy  this  morn- 
ing." 

The  cool  morning  light  that  fell  through  the 
panes  of  the  high  windows  on  the  letter-strewn 
table,  was  broken  and  rendered  tremulous  by 
the  sway  of  the  gently  stirring  branches  and 
the  fall  and  flutter  of  the  autumn  foliage  with 
out.  The  smooth  lawn,  encircled  by  the  firm 
driveway  between  the  house  and  the  heavy  iron 
fence,  appeared  unusually  green  where  the  grass 
was  visible  through  the  massed  stretches  of  rus 
set  leaves ;  but  already  the  gardeners  had  begun 
work,  and  soon,  the  approach  and  the  encom- 


70  A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA 

passed  sward  would  be  as  neat  as  if  it  were 
close  -  girdled  summer  instead  of  careless  au 
tumn.  The  house  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
carefully  tended  grounds,  belonged  to  the  red 
brick  and  yellow-sandstone  period  of  American 
architecture,  specimens  of  which  crop  up  so 
plentifully  throughout  the  country.  It  was  very 
large,  very  regular,  and  very  impersonal ;  it  pro 
duced  the  impression  of  having  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  was  honored  accordingly. 

"  There  have  been  more  letters  every  day," 
said  the  person  to  whom  Pruden  spoke,  a  tall 
woman,  who  turned  from  the  window  with  some 
thing  of  the  alertness  of  youth  and  a  little  of 
the  apathy  of  age  in  the  movement,  but  still 
with  a  peculiar  self-contained  poise  evidently 
characteristic  of  the  individual.  "  As  to-mor 
row  is  the  day  before  election,  I  suppose  you 
will  be  inundated." 

Then,  she  added,  after  a  short  pause,  a  little 
listlessly,  and  as  if  by  some  effort  of  memory 
she 'brought  herself  to  ask  the  question  : 

"  What  are  they  all  about  ?  " 

"  About,"  answered  Pruden,  with  his  habitual 
laugh,  "about  everything  and  about  nothing. 
They're  all  alike  in  this,  however,  they  all  ask 
something.  I  think  that  no  one  can  really  un- 


A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA  71 

derstand  the  multifarious  demands  of  humanity 
unless  he  is  a  millionaire  or  has  been  a  candi 
date  for  public  office.  Here,"  he  continued, 
picking  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  "  is  a  Chatterton 
who  has  written  a  poem  in  my  honor,  of  sixty- 
three  stanzas,  in  which  I  am  compared  to  Co 
lumbus  ;  "  and  he  read : 

"'Like  him  who  first  the  country  saw, 

And  gave  the  world  a  continent, 

So  you  will  bring  reform  and  law, 

And  give  us  honest  government.' 

% 

However,  he  only  wants  a  subscription  to  help 

him  to  bring  out  his  book.  This,"  he  went  on, 
taking  up  another  letter,  "  is  to  inform  me  that 
a  gentleman  who  has  been  blessed  with  twins 
has  done  me  the  honor  to  christen  one  after  me, 
and  wishes  to  know  my  wife's  name  so  that  he 
may  name  the  other  after  her.  He  does  not 
say  expressly  what  he  wants,  but  darkly  hints 
at  the  fitness  of  his  wife's  grandmother  for  the 
position  of  a  scrub-woman  in  the  City  Build 
ings.  Here  is  one  from  a  person  who  says  that 
he  has  noticed  with  regret  that  I  am  growing 
slightly  bald,  and  that  he  ventures  to  send  me 
a  wash  that  he  assures  me  will  bring  back  the 
hair  in  its  accustomed  luxuriance  and  restore  it 


72  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

to  its  pristine  color.  All  that  lie  desires  is  a 
certificate  attesting  the  beneficial  effects  I  have 
experienced  from  its  use.  Here  are  others," 
and  he  gathered  up  a  handful,  "  of  the  regula 
tion  pattern,  promising  support  and  influence, 
all  for  more  or  less  clearly  expressed  considera 
tions.  And  here  is  one  from  the  editor  of  The 
Multiple,  asking  for  an  interview  upon  a  most 
important  matter." 

"  "What  is  it  ?  "  she  demanded,  with  that  sud 
den  quickening  of  utterance  and  vigor  of  ac 
cent  that  denote  increased  attention,  if  not 
newly  awakened  interest. 

"  Why — you  see — my  dear,"  began  Pruden, 
coughing  slightly  and  glancing  over  his  glasses, 
placed  far  down  on  his  nose,  "I  suppose — I 
do  not  say  certainly — but  I  suppose  it  is  about 
the  same  old  thing." 

His  wife  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  she 
had  just  seated  herself,  beside  the  gently 
flickering  fire,  and  throwing  aside  the  news 
paper  at  which  she  had  carelessly  glanced, 
came  and  stood  before  him  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table.  Gray  hairs  were  discoverable  in 
the  crisp  waves  of  her  black  locks — her  maid 
had  at  one  time  attempted  their  extraction,  but 
had  been  somewhat  peremptorily  ordered  to 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  73 

desist — and  a  few  small  wrinkles  might  have 
been  discerned  about  her  eyes  and  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  when  it  was  motionless,  the 
strange  fixity  of  expression  peculiar  to  her 
making  Time's  delicate  intaglio  the  more  evi 
dent.  But  she  was  still  a  strangely  beautiful 
woman.  Although  her  complexion  had  not  the 
freshness  of  extreme  youth,  there  was  in  her 
face  a  ruddy  color — the  color  of  vigorous,  un 
troubled  health — that  was  almost  a  compen- 
sating,  quality ;  and  the  brilliancy  of  her  eyes, 
which  had  not  known,  and  evidently  never 
would  know,  diminution  or  change  until  the 
last,  gave  her  face  a  youthful  vividness,  and 
often  a  quick  animation,  in  spite  of  its  habit 
ual  coldness  of  expression.  As  she  stood  with 
the  light  full  upon  her,  as  strongly  erect  as  she 
had  stood,  when  Ethel  Burdyne,  at  her  first 
ball,  it  hardly  could  seem  possible  that  she 
had  been  the  wife  of  Robert  Pruden  for  four 
teen  years — marrying  him  at  twenty-three  with 
the  full  consent  of  her  family  and  the  unquali 
fied  approbation  of  the  town. 

"  Will  that  hateful  old  story  never  die  ?  "  she 
exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  Of  course  you  will 
refuse  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  very  well  do  that,"  answered  Pru- 


74  A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA 

den ;  "  but  I  can  refuse  to  accede  to  what  he 
probably  wishes." 

"  You  can ;  you  must,"  she  answered.  "  Rob 
ert,  you  would  not  do  such  a  thing — you  know 
that  you  would  not.  There  are  too  many  rea 
sons  why  Mr.  Harding,  enemy  though  he  may 
have  been  for  a  very  long  time,  and  political 
opponent  though  he  now  is,  should  be  well 
treated  by  you." 

"  But  is  this  really  just  ?  "  remonstrated  Prti- 
den,  a  little  petulantly.  "  A  man  should  suffer 
for  his  misdeeds  ;  and  if  another  profits  by  his 
suffering,  it  is  but  a  part  of  his  penalty." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  he  was  guilty  ? "  she 
asked,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  puts  an 
often-repeated  question. 

"I  could  not  prove  it,  you  know,"  he  re 
plied  ;  "  but  every  indication  at  the  time  point 
ed  to  his  guilt,  and  popular  opinion  univer 
sally  condemned  him." 

"But  nothing  was  ever  established,"  she 
said,  wearily,  and  with  the  slow,  lagging  words 
of  ineffectual  repetition.  "  Would  you  profit 
by  a  doubt?" 

She  had  urged  the  same  point  so  often,  re 
peated  the  same  arguments  so  frequently  dur 
ing  the  past  few  weeks. 


A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA  75 

"  You  know  that  I  have  refused  to  have  the 
story  used.  But  I  hesitate — I  doubt  some 
times " 

"Kobert,"  she  interrupted,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  voice  that  startled  even  her 
self,  "  you  are  certain  of  your  success ;  you  can 
afford  to  be  magnanimous.  The  day  after  to 
morrow  will  be  election-day ;  you  are  sure  to 
be  elected.  Do  not  let  the  value  of  your  vic 
tory  be  lessened  in  your  own  estimation  by  the 
knowledge  that  an  unjust,  and  certainly  an  un 
generous  action  may  have  contributed  toward 
it ;  do  not  make  another's  defeat  the  more  bit 
ter  by  the  fact  that  perhaps  it  has  been,  in  a 
manner,  brought  about  by  the  imputation  of  a 
fault  of  which  perhaps  he  was  never  guilty." 

"  You  always  plead  for  him,"  said  Pruden, 
angrily,  as  one  thin  wrinkle  struck  across  his 
smooth,  white  forehead,  and  his  full,  pink  lips 
gathered  in  quick  contraction. 

"  You  know  I  do  not,"  she  answered,  with 
the  remnant  of  an  almost  outworn  indignation 
in  her  tone.  "  Why  do  you  always  accuse  me 
of  it  ?  Cannot  you  believe  me  ?  I  plead  for 
you — for  you,  yourself.  You  have  so  far  re 
sisted  a  temptation ;  do  not  yield  to  it  now." 

"  If  it  had  been  any  other  man,  would  you 


76  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

have  been  so  eager — so  earnest  ?  "  continued 
Pruden,  looking,  at  her  and  then  glancing 
away.  His  eyes  were  small,  and  the  steadi 
ness  of  his  gaze  had  only  given  them  an  expres 
sion  of  anxious  and  suspicious  incredulity. 

"  You  have  asked  me  that  before — you  have 
asked  it  of  me  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  month. 
Why  have  you  done  so  ?  " 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  that  would 
have  been  gibing  had  it  not  been  apologetic, 
and  with  an  expression  that  might  have  been 
sneering  had;  it  not  been  one  of  fearfulness, 
"  because  a  woman  always  has  a  weakness  for 
the  man  who  once  loved  her — because " 

"  Robert,"  she  said,  in  the  measured  tone  of 
conscious  repression,  "  you  are  a  good  man  and 
I  am  a  good  woman.  "We  can  afford  to  speak 
the  truth.  Fifteen  years  ago  James  Harding 
sought  to  marry  me.  I  married  you.  Can 
not  you  forget  that  he  was  your  rival  ?  Does 
the  fact  that  he  is  your  opponent  now  so  em 
bitter  you  that  you  misjudge  him — and  me? 
In  the  last  few  clays,  in  look  and  tone,  in  words 
even,  you  have  implied  that  I  have  been  watch 
ful  of  his  interests,  more  watchful  than  I 
should  have  been  of  the  interests  of  another. 
Because  I  have  asked  you  not  to  revive  this 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  77 

old  scandal,  you  have  insinuated  more  or  less 
clearly  that  I  have  not  been  true  to  you.  Is 
this  fair,  is  it  fitting,  is  it  even  dignified? 
Have  not  all  the  years  that  we  have  lived  to 
gether  led  to  something  better — more  secure  ? 
Cannot  you  trust  me  ?  Because  you  have  hated 
him,  and  he,  as  I  suppose,  has  hated  you,  must 
you,  with  wilful  perversity,  misrepresent  cir 
cumstances  and  lives  ?  " 

"  But  " — began  Pruden,  suspicious  as  are 
those  who  are  uncertain  of  themselves — whose 
self-doubt  begets  doubt  of  others.  He  paused, 
beat  his  fingers  softly  on  the  table,  and  then 
went  on  with  greater  boldness  than  he  had 
hitherto  shown  :  "  But  he  loved  you  once." 

"  I  have  understood  the  meaning  underlying 
your  words,"  she  said.  "  What  I  feared  has 
come.  When  you  were  nominated,  and  I 
learned  that  you  were  to  be  the  opponent  of 
Mr.  Harding,  I  did  what  I  could  to  dissuade 
you  from  running  against  him." 

"  If  my  interests — "  commenced  Pruden, 
with  the  insistence  of  weakness. 

"  You  know  that  I  have  always  made  your 
interests  mine,"  she  interrupted,  in  her  sudden 
scorn  letting  her  clear  voice  ring  out  with 
something  of  its  natural  vigor.  "  After  fourteen 


78  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

years,  can  you  not  trust  me — once  ?  I  tried  to 
induce  you  to  refuse  the  honor,  as  you  called 
it.  I  could  give  no  reason ;  I  knew  none.  I 
only  vaguely  feared  trouble,  and  trouble  has 
come.  Suspicion  may  exist,  doubt  may  even 
be  ever  present,  but  when  neither  has  found 
utterance  people  may  live  with  dignity  and 
self-respect,  if  not  with  tranquillity  and  happi 
ness.  But  let  what  each  knows  be  once  ac 
knowledged  by  both,  and  all  peace,  all  restraint 
is  at  an  end.  What  has  been  said  once  will  be 
said  again  ;  both  will  live  but  in  apprehension 
of  its  repetition.  You  taunt  me  with  the  fact 
that  James  Harding  loved  me ;  you  will  next 
accuse  me  of  having  loved  him.  No  two,  quar 
relling  in  a  hovel,  could  really  be  more  rudely 
explicit  than  we  should  become  ;  and  though 
our  language  might  be  better,  our  lives  would 
really  be  as  squalid." 

She  paused  and  glanced  down  at  her  hus 
band  as  he  sat  at  the  table. 

James  Harding  and  Eobert  Pruden  had 
journeyed  through  life  with  orbits  constantly 
crossing  and  recrossing  in  one  of  those  com 
pulsory  relations  which  sometimes  seem  inexor 
ably  imposed  upon  human  beings,  and  which 


,4  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  79 

they  no  more  can  change,  however  discon 
tented  they  may  be,  than  a  dissatisfied  planet 
can  change  its  system.  Of  nearly  the  same  age, 
and  born  to  nearly  equal  positions  and  fortunes, 
their  lives  had  been  so  much  alike  in  circum 
stance  as  to  invite  comparison,  and  their  names 
had  always  been  inseparably  bracketed  in  the 
public  mind. 

It  is  not  only  between  the  patrician  families 
of  a  picturesque  Verona,  that  personal  feuds 
arise  that  involve  families  and  communities  as 
well  as  individuals.  Race  hatreds  that  have  ex 
isted  for  a  greater  or  less  time  are  to  be  found 
in  all  our  cities,  and,  though  they  may  not  be 
carried  on  as  frankly  and  as  bloodily  as  in 
other  places  and  other  times,  they  are  really 
hardly  less  bitter.  They  may  not  be  fought 
out  with  the  sword  thrust  and  parry  in  the 
moonlit  streets ;  but  they  certainly  are  very 
vigorously  prosecuted  in  the  drawing-room  and 
across  the  dinner-table  with  the  tongue's  give 
and  take. 

Once,  "before  the  war,"  the  Hardings  and 
the  Prudens  had  been  friends ;  and  in  child 
hood  and  boyhood  Pruden  and  Harding  had 
lived  in  the  compulsory  intimacy  of  a  limited 
society.  Whether  they  had  been  really  friends 


80  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

they  could  themselves  hardly  have  said  ;  often 
those  who  are  by  circumstances  much  thrown 
together  acquire  a  habit  of  intercourse  that 
very  effectively  replaces  actual  congeniality, 
and  enables  them  to  go  on  without  the  neces 
sity  of  questioning  the  exact  nature  of  their 
relations.  Although  they  were  social  equals, 
the  quality,  so  to  speak,  of  their  families'  po 
sitions  was  very  different.  Pruden,  the  elder, 
had  always  affected  a  certain  simplicity  of  life 
and  austerity  of  manner  that  marked  him  as  a 
zealous  upholder  of  most  things  called  con 
servative,  and  had  already,  in  that  remote  time, 
won  for  him  the  appellation  of  "  old-fashioned." 
Harding,  on  the  other  hand,  had,  as  far  as  was 
possible  in  that  unvitalized  period,  led  the 
lighter  life  of  the  larger  world ;  had  rather  de 
spised  Pruden's  "  puritanical "  prejudices  ;  had 
married  a  Harpending ;  had  been  wise  in  wine 
and  "horse,"  and,  before  anyone  else  in  the 
city,  had  put  his  coachman  in  livery.  Young 
Pruden  was  an  exemplary  student,  rejoicing  in 
an  examination  and  scenting  a  prize  from  afar, 
a  "  dig  "  and  a  "  grind ; "  but  young  Harding 
found  the  pons  asinorum  a  "  Bridge  of  Sighs," 
and  with  difficulty  had  advanced  with  Xeno- 
phon  even  the  regulation  number  of  parasangs 


A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA  81 

a  day.  But  he  could  ride  more  lightly,  run 
more  swiftly,  and  swim  more  strongly  than 
any  of  his  companions.  When  Pruden  spoke 
of  Harding's  son  it  was  as  "  that  young  sav 
age  ; "  while  Harding  designated  his  friend's 
offspring  as  "the  bookworm." 

At  Harvard,  Harding  was  the  first  marshal 
of  his  class ;  Pruden  delivered  the  oration. 
Both  men  had  inherited  fortunes  and  were 
really  independent ;  but  society  at  that  time 
demanded  at  least  an  ostensible  occupation, 
and  after  graduation,  on  their  return  home  to 
assume  the  responsibilities  of  their  positions, 
both  became  active  partners  in  a  firm  of  long 
standing,  whose  founders  were  all  dead  except 
one — Christopher  Burdyne — the  father  of  Ethel 
Burdyne. 

The  men  fell  apart.  Harding  made  idleness, 
which  had  hitherto  been  regarded  with  abso 
lute  disfavor  in  the  place,  possible,  if  not  dis 
tinguished,  and  really  revolutionized  much  of 
the  life  of  the  town,  making  its  society,  for 
better  or  worse,  a  more  accurate  counterpart  of 
the  life  of  larger  and  older  places.  Mankind 
always  demands  a  leader,  the  living  exponent 
of  an  idea,  some  one  to  whom  it  is  possible  to 
point  and  say  :  "Behold,  this  is  an  example  of 
6 


82  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

all  that  is  admirable."  Prnden — without  ef 
fort,  and  unavoidably,  became  the  representa 
tive  of  those  who  felt  themselves  aggrieved  by 
young  Harding's  mode  of  life — found  himself 
advanced  as  the  exemplar  of  the  principles  of 
the  more  staid  members  of  the  community. 
He  was  scrupulous  in  his  attention  to  "  busi 
ness  ; "  systematic  in  his  charities ;  accurate  in 
every  conventional  observance.  Respectable 
heads  of  families  held  him  up  as  a  pattern  of 
all  that  was  desirable  for  their  sons,  and  worthy 
matrons  welcomed  him  effusively  as  a  partner 
for  their  daughters.  But  there  was  many  a 
radiant  young  sovereign  of  the  ball-room, 
reigning  by  true  right  divine,  who  smiled  on 
young  Harding,  and  hardly  a  spirited  younker 
in  town  who  was  not  his  friend. 

The  almost  imperceptible  but  inevitable  dis 
integration  of  time  took  place ;  then  the  most 
sudden  and  absolute  fracture  possible  occurred 
— that  cleavage  that  can  separate  the  closest- 
bound  lives,  the  firmest  friendships.  Both 
men  fell  in  love,  and  the  woman  both  loved 
was  the  same.  Had  it  been  another  than  she, 
the  dormant,  unrecognized  antipathy  that  had 
so  long  existed  might  not  have  so  suddenly 
developed  into  open,  active  animosity;  but 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  83 

both  loved  Ethel  Burdyne,  and  such  result  was 
inevitable.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  be  loved 
half-heartedly.  He  who  had  once  felt  the  power 
of  her  dark  glance  was  as  little  able  to  free 
himself  from  its  subversive  influence  as  it  was 
once  supposed  the  tarantula-bitten  wretch  was 
to  escape  from  the  effect  of  the  venomous  sting. 
And  it  was  a  pretty  dance  she  led  her  victims 
— a  wild  tarantism,  from  which  they  neither 
sought  nor  desired  freedom.  Her  careless, 
girlish  arrogance  drove  Harding,  with  his  more 
excitable  nature,  to  desperation ;  with  Pruden 
her  calm  capriciousness  was  only  a  needed  ex 
citant,  animating  but  not  overmastering  him. 
His  love,  however,  played  strange  havoc  with 
his  well-formulated  beliefs  and  well-grounded 
prejudices ;  it  came  across  his  life  like  a  tu 
multuous  gust  of  wind  sweeping  across  liis 
well-kept  desk,  mixing  and  confusing  all  his 
carefully  arranged  ideas,  as  the  invading  puff 
might  his  perfectly  ordered  papers. 

Harding  was  in  difficulty,  and  his  present 
infatuation  seemed  only  to  make  him  the  more 
reckless.  There  was  talk  of  dissipated  faculties 
and  wasted  opportunities  ;  there  were  whispers 
of  large  losses  at  play.  That  he  was  embar 
rassed  for  want  of  money  was  well  known  ;  al- 


84  A  DEEDLE88  DRAMA 

though  he  had  but  a  short  time  before  pos 
sessed  ample  means,  it  was  understood  that  he 
was  borrowing  largely. 

Sometimes  it  is  a  great  thing,  sometimes  a 
very  small  one,  but  sooner  or  later,  although 
often  unaccountably  delayed,  something  hap 
pens  that  is  the  culmination  of  a  cumulative 
series  of  events,  and  that  characterizes  all  that 
has  gone  before  and  all  that  comes  afterward. 
One  morning  about  "  the  streets,"  and  one  af 
ternoon  at  the  club,  there  was  a  strange  rumor. 
Burdyne,  Harding  &  Pruden,  it  was  said,  had 
been  robbed  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  "Where 
the  story  started  no  one  could  tell ;  but,  with 
all  the  strange  amplitude  of  detail  of  undefined 
report,  it  was  in  men's  mouths,  and  thenceforth, 
was,  within  even  the  lives  of  generations,  never 
to  be  driven  from  men's  minds.  That  a  large 
sum  had  been  stolen — from  fifty  to  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars — no  one  doubted.  The  night 
before  it  had  been  in  the  firm's  vault ;  in  the 
morning  it  was  gone.  The  lock  was  intact ;  the 
great  door  was  untouched.  But  the  drawer  in 
which  the  money  had  been  was  empty.  Only 
the  members  of  the  firm  possessed  a  key  that 
would  open  the  complicated  lock,  or  knew  the 
"  sesame  "  of  the  "  combination  ;  "  and  yet  the 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  85 

money  was  undoubtedly  missing.  When  old 
Mr.  Burdyne  was  incidentally  questioned,  he 
only  shook  his  head  and  admitted  that  the  firm 
had  sustained  a  considerable  loss ;  interviewed 
by  the  representative  of  an  enterprising  news 
paper,  he  confessed  that  the  matter  was  under 
investigation.  Neither  Harding  nor  Prudent 
would  say  anything,  and  all  that  was  ever  pub 
licly  known  was  what  had  come  into  common 
knowledge  at  the  very  first.  Finally,  with  de 
creasing  speculation,  the  affair  ceased  actively 
to  occupy  the  general  attention ;  but  from  that 
morning  Harding  was  a  marked  man — by  the 
irresponsible  tribunals  of  the  counting-room 
and  smoking-room  he  had  been  as  irrevocably 
condemned  as  was  ever  a  criminal  by  judge  or 
jury.  But  little  was  ever  said  that  he  could 
hear  ;  it  is  doubtful  if  he  could  have  described 
any  change  in  the  manner  of  those  whom  he 
daily  met ;  but  from  that  moment  he  was  in  a 
measure  an  outcast — a  man  out  of  full  and  per 
fect  communion,  with  his  kind.  He  was  a  man 
with  a  story.  Such  men  are  to  be  found  every 
where,  often  apparently  enjoying  the  esteem  of 
many  and  the  confidence  of  all ;  but  let  even  a 
stranger  look  a  little  more  closely  or  observe  a 
little  longer  existing  conditions,  and  he  will  de- 


86  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

tect,  as  to  such  a  one,  marked  differences  and 
reservations.  He  is  the  man  with  a  history  ;  at 
his  heels  drags  an  invisible  but  impeding  ball 
and  chain,  and  on  his  wrists  are  undiscernible 
manacles  ;  unconsciously  his  eyes  fall  in  antici 
pation  of  the  condemnatory  glance  ;  unavoid 
ably  his  tongue  hesitates  as  if  fearful  of  rebuff, 
for,  even  if  innocent,  he  cannot  preserve  the 
frankness  and  freedom  of  unsuspected  integrity. 
What  is  said  of  him  may  not  be  true,  and  he 
may  know  it ;  but  it  has  been  said,  and  no  words 
graven  on  monumental  brass  or  cut  in  memorial 
marble  are  more  enduring  than  those  recorded 
in  grave  or  light  character  on  the  public  mind 
— no  conviction  so  absolute  and  without  appeal 
as  that  pronounced  by  the  public  voice. 

Harding  was  at  first  indifferent,  then  actively 
and  proudly  rebellious — ready  to  suspect  af 
front  and  resentful  of  any  imagined  insult — 
then  dully  resigned.  What  could  he  do  against 
the  many  ?  He  might  convince  one  in  a  thou 
sand,  but,  with  their  wide  dissemination,  could 
he  ever  hope  to  destroy  the  wide-spread  plague- 
germs  of  scandal,  the  microbes  of  defamation  ? 

Men  forgot  in  the  press  of  newer  matters  to 
discuss  the  ugly  story  ;  but  there  was  not  one 
whose  first  thought  at  sight  of  Harding  was  not 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  87 

of  the  robbery.  After  a  while  the  subject  was 
absolutely  stricken  out  of  the  list  of  the  day's 
topics  ;  then,  it  was  revived  for  a  time,  when  it 
was  known  that  the  firm  of  Burdyne,  Harding 
&  Pruden  had  been  dissolved ;  and  again  was 
less  actively  taken  up  when  it  was  learned  that 
Pruden  was  to  marry  Ethel  Burdyne.  A  decade 
passed ;  the  place  changed  and  the  people,  but 
the  story  was  not  quite  forgotten.  It  lingered 
in  the  memory  of  many  of  the  townspeople, 
gaining  something  in  romantic  interest  by  the 
flight  of  time,  in  much  the  same  manner  as  the 
town-pump  that  had  once  stood  in  the  main 
street,  a  plain  and  unpretentious  affair,  had  in 
unrecognized  association  acquired  a  certain  pict- 
uresqueness.  Harding's  story  became  one  of 
the  legends  of  the  place.  As  another  genera 
tion  began  its  life,  it  was  whispered  in  attentive 
ears,  and  heard  almost  as  eagerly  as  on  the 
morning  when  it  was  new.  Harding  himself 
had  changed.  Levity  and  carelessness  were 
gone  ;  an  unvarying  and  disdainful  reserve  had 
taken  the  place  of  his  former  blithe  bonhomie. 
His  manner  of  life  changed.  He  who  had  been 
the  most  flippant  idler  became  an  unquestion 
able  hard  worker — absorbed  in  affairs  and  ap 
parently  without  other  thought  than  gain.  He 


88  A  DEEDLE8S  DRAMA 

greatly  prospered,  gathering  to  himself  a  huge 
fortune ;  and  men  looked  almost  with  awe  upon 
the  man  whom  no  turn  of  a  market  ever  found 
unprepared.  Harding's  party,  in  the  minority 
in  the  place,  sought  a  candidate.  His  popular 
ity  was  an  uncertain  quantity,  but  his  riches 
were  indubitable.  If  the  spoils  of  victory  were 
not  to  be  won,  the  pickings  of  the  "  campaign  " 
were  not  to  be  despised.  He  was  nominated, 
and,  to  the  surprise  of  everyone,  he  accepted 
the  nomination. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  the  room 
where  Pruden  sat  before  his  wife ;  then  he 
laughed  irritably.  He  laughed  very  frequently  ; 
sometimes  excitedly,  often  embarrassedly,  oc 
casionally  exultingly.  It  was  a  peculiarity  to 
which  Ethel  had  never  become  resigned ;  and 
she  dreaded  inexpressibly  that  inopportune, 
boisterous  laughter,  boyish  without  boyishness, 
breaking  out  in  some  loud  guffaw  at  some  silly 
joke,  covering  some  new  gaucherie,  rejoicing 
over  some  small  point  gained.  Often  some  lit 
tle  habit,  at  first  almost .  unnoticed,  will,  by  its 
persistence,  thrust  itself  upon  the  attention  of 
one  who  is  obliged  to  live  with  its  possessor, 
and,  in  the  course  of  time,  become  a  terrible 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  89 

infliction.  It  may  be  only  a  very  small  thing, 
but  sometimes,  where  a  previous  and  prevailing 
fondness  does  not  exist,  it  starts,  fosters,  and 
perfects  a  hatred  such  as  the  discovery  of  crime 
could  not  have  occasioned.  With  morbid  ex 
pectancy  the  sufferer  watches  for  the  recurrence 
of  the  distasteful  thing,  unable  to  drive  away 
the  consciousness  of  its  coming,  and  proximity 
becomes  a  prolonged  dread.  Such  a  thing  in  a 
measure  was  Pruden's  laugh  to  Ethel ;  it  had 
from  the  first  jarred  upon  her ;  in  time  it  be 
came  almost  physically  disagreeable.  Now  it 
seemed  almost  unendurable. 

"  I  speak  seriously,"  she  said,  "  and  for  the 
future.  Kobert,"  she  went  on,  picking  up  a 
paper-knife,  an  imitation  dagger  whose  bright 
blade  gleamed  viciously  in  her  firm  grasp,  "  you 
have  been  tempted,  and  you  have  resisted  no 
bly.  How  great  the  inducement  must  have 
been  to  take  advantage  of  what  chance  offered 
to  you  I  can  understand,  all  must  understand. 
You  had  only  to  consent  to  the  use  of  the  story 
as  a  campaign  measure  to  injure  James  Hard 
ing  and  advance  your  own  interests.  With  all 
the  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  you — and  I 
know  what  it  has  been — you  have  refused  to  do 
so.  I  honor  you  for  it ;  all  must  honor  you  for 


90  A  DEEDLE8S  DRAMA 

it.  I  said  a  moment  ago  that  you  were  a  good 
man.  You  have  always  been  very  good  to 
me— 

She  paused,  and  the  little  knife  dropped  from 
her  hand  with  a  sharp,  metallic  ring  upon  the 
table. 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  you  never  have 
loved  me." 

She  looked  down  at  Pruden,  who,  with  his 
diffident  indirectness  of  glance,  seemed  rather 
one  accused  than  one  accusing. 

"  I  knew  it  always,"  he  added,  almost  plain 
tively,  "  but  I  have  always  hoped  that  I  might 
overcome  your — your  indifference.  I  have  done 
what  I  could,  and  now  it  seems  that  your — 
aversion — 

"  No,  no,"  she  interrupted. 

He  hesitated  as  if  he  expected  her  to  speak 
farther,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  At  all  events,  your  affection  is  as  far  beyond 
my  attainment  as  ever,"  he  went  on.  "  James 
Harding— 

"  Must  his  name  be  used — must  we  speak  of 
him?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Pruden,  with  that  apathy 
with  which  much  that  is  most  vital  can  be  said 
when  it  has  been  long  thought.  "  You  would 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  91 

have  married  James  Harding  if  you  had  not 
thought  him  unworthy — had  not  known  him  to 
be  a " 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  almost  fiercely,  "I 
never  thought  it,  and — you  shall  not  say  it." 

"  You  defend  him  now,  even  when  you  know 
him  indefensible,"  he  said,  with  jealous  readi 
ness. 

"  I  defend  him  as  I  would  any  stranger  I  be 
lieved  unjustly  accused." 

"  If  you  believed  him  innocent  why  did  you 
not  marry  him  ? "  he  demanded,  forgetful  of 
all  self-control  and  with  that  abject  curiosity  of 
the  jealous,  who  stop  at  no  self-abasement  to 
learn  what  they  desire  to  know. 

She  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

"  I  married  you,"  she  answered.  "  Have  you 
any  reason  to  suppose  that  it  was  not  because 
I  wished  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  sullenly. 

"  And  I  have  loved  you,  Robert." 

"  Love  !  "  he  said,  almost  as  if  in  soliloquy. 
"Yes,"  and  he  smiled  with  a  certain  patient 
resignation  that  was  not  without  dignity,  "  you 
have  loved  me.  I  know.  But  how  have  you 
loved  me  ?  The  best  love  is  given  in  spite  of 
all  reason  ;  it  was  reason  alone  that  accredited 


92  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

me  to  you,  otherwise  you  would  not  have  mar 
ried  me.  You  never  have — you  never  could 
have  loved  me,  with  that  other  love.  The 
thought  that  I  could  not  win  what  was  given  to 
a  worthless  idler  was  exasperation  to  me.  I  ex 
ulted  in  his  downfall.  I " 

"  You  do  not  know  he  did  it,"  she  said,  with 
the  same  tone  of  mechanical  reiteration  with 
which  she  had  urged  the  possibility  of  Hard- 
ing's  innocence  before — as  if  she  were  fulfilling 
some  duty  so  habitual  as  to  be  almost  uncon 
sciously  performed. 

"We  dissolved  the  firm  upon  that  suppo 
sition,"  he  said,  "  choosing  to  lose  the  money 
rather  than  prosecute  an  associate.  I  firmly  be 
lieve  that  he  did  the  thing,  and  with  the  dis 
like — hatred — that  I  have  always  had  for  him, 
it  has  been  very  difficult  for  me  to  refrain  from 
doing  something  that  many  would  think  only 
natural.  I  have  had  nothing  to  lose  and  much 
to  gain." 

"  If  you  had  done  otherwise  you  would  have 
lost  in  the  consideration  of  all  thoughtful 
people.  You  could  prove  nothing — you  could 
only  vilify  ;  and  in  refraining  from  doing  that, 
you  have  the  consciousness  that  you  have  been 
an  honorable  gentleman." 


A  DEEDLE88  DRAMA  93 

"  I  have  not  done  it ;  I  have  been  weak,  at 
times,  but  I  have  not  done  it.  This  temptation 
has  been  nearly  the  measure  of  my  power.  I 
cannot  imagine  an  added  element  that  would 
make  it  greater;  but  were  it  possible  that  it 
should  be  greater — I  hope  you  will  understand 
what  I  have  done — I  could  not  have  resisted 
it. 

He  paused,  for  he  had  spoken  with  an  in 
tensity  unusual  with  him,  and  he  appeared  al 
most  physically  exhausted. 

"The  better  part  of  our  lives  is  past,"  he 
resumed,  in  a  moment.  "  If  we  have  not  been 
joyously  successful,  we  have  at  least  been  de 
cently  peaceful.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  any  dis 
tressing  or  disturbing  things  now.  We  have 
gone  too  far  for  that.  I  have  tried  to  do  the 
best  for  you,  in  my  way  —  another  way  might 
have  made  you  happier,  perhaps,  but  I  was  un 
equal  to  it  or  did  not  know.  That  I  could  not 
do  better,  I  am  sorry.  I  do  not  blame  you  for 
anything.  I  understand  now  how  hard  you 
have  tried  too — in  your  way." 

"  We  have  not  done  so  very  badly,  Robert," 
she  answered,  kindly.  "I  think  we  are  not 
exactly  people  for  tremor  and  transport ;  and 
if  we  have  missed  a  little  of  the  intoxication, 


94  A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA 

we  are  not  now  of  an  age  when  we  should  re 
gret  it.  Believe  me,"  and  she  spoke  with  even 
regretful  tenderness,  "  no  one  could  have  been 
kinder,  more  considerate,  more  forbearing." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  across  the 
table,  and,  taking  it  clumsily  in  both  his  own, 
he  shyly  kissed  it. 


II. 


As  Harding  closed  and  locked  the  door  of 
his  private  office,  shutting  out  the  discordant 
hum  of  voices  that  filled  the  crowded  rooms 
beyond,  the  stamp  of  hurried  feet,  the  grating 
noise  of  chairs  shoved  abruptly  back  or  drawn 
hastily  forward  over  the  wooden  floor — as  he 
removed  the  newspaper  from  the  pocket  in 
which  he  had  so  hastily  thrust  it  when  it  had 
first  been  brought  to  him,  he  felt  that  re 
lief  that  is  often  given  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  period  of  suspense  is  finally  ended, 
that  the  long -dreaded  blow  has  at  last  fall 
en,  that  the  worst  that  can  be  has  come.  He 
stepped  to  the  window  and  unfolded  the  scant 
leaves.  The  Multiple  was  only  a  penny  pa 
per,  and  hardly  indicative  in  its  appearance  of 
its  large  circulation  and  wide  influence.  He 
glanced  along  the  columns  of  the  first  page, 
and  instantly  the  article  he  sought  caught  his 
eyes.  Double  -  leaded  and  with  heavy  black 
heading,  the  lines  that  he  had  dreaded  every 


96  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

morning  and  evening  to  find  in  some  hostile 
sheet  stood  conspicuous.  He  bit  his  lower 
lip,  as  was  a  habit  with  him,  and  his  fingers 
tightened  slightly  upon  the  common  hard  pa 
per  upon  which  The  Multiple  was  printed, 
causing  the  coarse  fabric  to  crackle  with  an 
almost  malicious  sharpness.  Still  he  did  not 
at  once  read  the  words  staring  him  in  the  face ; 
he  only  looked  vacantly  out  and  through  the 
dust-dimmed  pane.  He  was  anxious,  fever 
ishly,  fearfully  anxious,  to  gather  the  full  im 
port  of  the  dreaded  sentences,  but  still  he 
weakly  postponed  the  moment  of  full  realiza 
tion.  If  comprehension  could  only  be  reached 
without  reading  the  detestable  phrases,  word 
after  word ! 

The  window  looked  upon  the  courtyard  of 
the  great  building — his  own — the  "  Harding 
Building,"  in  which  were  his  offices,  as  were 
also  the  offices,  story  on  story,  of  nearly  every 
important  professional  man  or  considerable 
corporation  in  town — a  building  from  which 
he  drew  the  revenue  of  a  German  principality, 
and  that  was  a  boast  for  the  inhabitants  and 
a  jest  for  the  dwellers  in  rival  and  envious 
cities.  It  was  a  little  later  than  noon.  The 
telegraph  and  telephone  wires,  extending  from 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  97 

roof  to  roof  in  bewildering  confusion,  cast  thick 
shadows  on  the  walls  and  pavement,  so  thick 
and  strong  that,  looking  only  at  them,  you 
might  have  imagined  that  innumerable  heavy 
cables  had  been  stretched  across  the  space  for 
the  aerial  performance  of  a  troop  of  tight-rope 
dancers.  Dully  the  sound  of  the  jarring  wheels 
rose  from  the  street,  vaguely  the  cries  of  the 
small  traffickers  of  the  sidewalk  rose  to  the  se 
cluded  room.  The  business-day  was  at  its  me 
ridian  ;  the  business- world  supremely  active — 
that  world  in  which  latterly  he  had  solely  lived, 
and  which  he  had  come  to  know  so  well.  He 
was  upon  his  own  ground,  in  secure  possession 
upon  an  often  contested  field ;  with  his  massed 
millions,  what  could  harm  him  ?  But  even  as 
he  sought  to  assure  himself  he  almost  trem 
bled.  He  understood  the  cowardly  cruelty  of 
the  many,  and  knew  that  a  bold  assault  like 
the  present  would  be  followed  by  almost  end 
less  guerilla  warfare. 

He  grasped  the  paper  still  tighter,  and 
looked  again  at  the  article. 

"  He  has  done  it  at  last,"  Harding  muttered. 
"  I  knew  he  would.  The  chance  was  too  good 
for  him  to  lose.  The  sanctimonious  hypocrite ! " 

He  had  only  half  an  hour  before  learned  that 
7 


98  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

the  attack  upon  him  had  appeared.  No  one 
had  dared  to  tell  him  of  this,  and  it  was  only 
when  Plestero,  entering  the  committee-rooms, 
had,  with  the  innocence  of  fatuity  and  the 
hardihood  of  folly,  made  joking  allusion  to 
it,  that  Harding  learned  that  what  he  dreaded 
most  in  the  world  had  happened.  There,  at 
last,  it  all  was,  in  black  and  white — the  old, 
old  miserable  story,  with  dates,  names,  and 
even  the  amount  confidently  given.  He  read, 
almost  in  one  comprehensive  glance,  then  with 
a  quick,  indignant  exclamation,  that  ended  in 
an  oath,  he  tore  the  paper  across  and  cast  it 
on  the  floor.  He  was  so  helpless,  and  he  knew 
it ;  so  friendless,  and  he  fully  realized  it.  Be 
fore  this  accusation,  that  had  been  gathering 
force  for  fifteen  years,  he  must  remain  silent. 
He  felt  "cornered" — at  bay— and  something 
of  the  anguish  and  brute  anger  of  a  trapped 
and  desperate  animal  rose  in  his  heart,  arous 
ing  every  instinct  of  self  -  preservation  and 
every  impulse  of  revenge. 

He  turned  and  walked  across  the  floor. 
There  are  times  in  the  lives  of  the  best  of  us 
when,  shirk  the  fact  as  we  may,  if  the  weapon 
of  destruction  were  in  our  grasp  we  would  not 
put  it  away.  Well  it  is  indeed  that  means  are 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  99 

not  always  responsive  to  desire.  To  Harding, 
as  he  paced  the  room,  nature  seemed  a  hostile, 
threatening  thing,  and  mankind  a  personal  en 
emy  ;  in  his  fierce  revolt  no  act  of  retaliation 
would  have  appeared  a  crime. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

With  election  on  the  day  after  the  morrow, 
all  had  business  with  him,  and  none  could  be 
refused. 

"  Come  in,"  he  cried,  and  then  he  turned  the 
key  and  instinctively  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  light. 

"  A  young  man  who  wishes  to  see  you,  sir," 
said  the  clerk,  as  he  entered.  "  I've  tried  to 
get  rid  of  him,  but  he  won't  go.  He  says  he 
has  something  most  important  to  say." 

"  Well,"  responded  Harding,  sharply. 

The  man  closed  the  door  softly,  but  in  a  mo 
ment  it  was  again  opened  and  another  figure 
stood  upon  the  threshold.  With  one  hand  up 
on  the  handle  the  new-comer  steadied  himself 
and  looked  vaguely  around. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Harding,"  he  said, 
rather  huskily,  but  still  intelligibly  enough. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  we  meet  people 
who  are  so  perfectly  "  dressed "  for  their  too 


100  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

evident  character  that  they  almost  impress  us 
with  a  sense  of  unreality.  It  almost  seems  that 
they  are  "  doing  it  on  purpose,"  so  exactly  are 
their  habiliments  such  as  we  should  expect  to 
find  upon  a  clever  actor  representing  what  they 
clearly  are.  The  young  man  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  was  so  consummate  a  personification 
of  the  species  "  tough,"  that  he  was  almost 
ludicrous  in  his  exactitude.  He  seemed,  as  it 
were,  some  grotesque  caricature  of  himself. 

"  Mornin',  Mr.  Harding  !  "  he  went  on. 

"  Good-morning." 

"I  hate  to  take  your  time,"  he  continued, 
"  as  the  man  said  when  he  annexed  the  other 
fellow's  watch.  But  I  believe  in  going  to  head 
quarters  straight,  and  so  I  came  to  you." 

Harding  did  not  speak. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  know  who  I  am."  He 
took  one  step  into  the  room,  with  his  hand 
still  on  the  door-handle. 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  answered  Harding.  "  I  am 
very  much  occupied  ;  if  you  have  anything  to 
say  I  hope  you  will  say  it." 

"  But  if  I  told  you  I  was  the  son  of  Colby, 
the  book-keeper  of  the  firm  of  Burdyne,  Hard 
ing  &  Pruden,  perhaps  you  might  think  there 
was  some  reason  for  talking  to  me." 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  101 

Colby  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  clerk 
who  stood  behind  him. 

"  A  confidential  communication,"  he  said. 

Harding  nodded,  and  the  clerk  disappeared. 

Moved  as  he  was  by  what  he  had  just  read, 
the  immediate  mention  of  the  name  of  the  old 
firm  affected  him  strangely  ;  it  seemed,  coming 
as  it  did  in  such  close  connection,  some  mock 
ing  play  of  fate,  and  it  was  with  an  unusual 
sense  of  excitement  that  he  spoke. 

"I  remember  your  father  very  well,  Mr. 
Colby,"  he  said.  "He  was  a  very  worthy  man, 
and  had  the  respect  of  all  who  knew  him.  He 
died,  I  think,  about  five  years  ago — and  I  am 
unable  to  see " 

"Don't  accelerate  the  conversation,  Mr. 
Harding,  or,  in  other  words,  don't  go  too  fast. 
I've  heard  it  said  that  dead  men  tell  no  tales. 
Well,  it  ain't  true.  They  talk  sometimes,  and 
then  they  talk  loud." 

He  winked  at  Harding,  at  the  same  time 
slightly  elevating  his  chin. 

"  It's  true  he  died  five  years  ago,"  continued 
Colby,  "  but,  just  before,  he  freed  his  mind  of 
something  that  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like 
to  hear." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harding,  with  almost  tremulous 


102  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

anxiety.  Excited  as  he  was,  there  seemed 
something  terrifying  in  the  appositeness  of  the 
incident. 

"Mr.  Harding,"  said  Colby,  carefully  closing 
the  door,  "  you  never  stole  that  money." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  you  never  stole  that  money — be 
cause  another  man  did  it." 

Harding  sank  into  the  chair  beside  which  he 
stood. 

"  And  I've  got  the  way  to  prove  it." 

Harding  did  not  speak.  Not  for  an  instant 
did  he  doubt  the  truth  of  what  was  said.  After 
his  involuntary  acquiescence  in  the  probability 
of  what  had  seemed  impossible,  he  was  pre 
pared  to  believe  anything. 

Colby  advanced  a  step  or  two  further  into 
the  room. 

"  I  have  my  father's  statement — all  regular 
and  sworn  to — proving  who  stole  that  money, 
and  it  wasn't  you,  Mr.  Harding." 

Still  Harding  said  nothing. 

"  When  I  saw  that  thing  in  the  paper  this 
morning,  I  thought  I'd  better  act.  The  old 
gentleman  was  always  unwilling  that  the  truth 
should  come  out,  for  some  reason;  but  it  lay 
on  his  mind,  and  just  before  he  died  he  wrote 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  103 

it  down.  I'm  hard  up,  or,  rather,  hard  down, 
for  I've  touched  my  lowest  level — my  last  cent. 
I've  got  to  raise  the  wind,  I  wouldn't  mind  if 
it  blew  a  Western  cyclone,  and  I  thought  that, 
all  things  considered,  you  might  be  willing  to 
help  turn  on  the  breeze." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  I'm  not  particular.  I  only  want  money. 
Give  me  enough,  and  I'll  give  you  the  means 
of  fixing  old  Pruden  so  that  he'll  not  squeal 
again." 

"Pruden?" 

"It  was  he  stole  that  money — see  here." 
And  drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket  he  began 
to  read  from  it :  "  '  Being  upon  the  point  of 
quitting  this  world,  and  wishing  to  have  noth 
ing  upon  my  soul,  I  make  the  following  state- 
inent,  earnestly  hoping  that  it  may  never  be 
used  to  the  detriment  of  any  of  the  persons 
concerned,  all  of  whom  have  treated  me  with 
unvarying  kindness,  and  none  of  whom  I  would 
desire  to  injure.  Still,  as  the  truth  is  always 
desirable  and  certain  in  the  end  to  be  bene 
ficial,  I  now  say  what  I  do.  On  the  night  of 
June  15,  18 — ,  the  night  of  the  robbery  of  the 
firm  of  Burdyne,  Harding  &  Pruden,  I  had  re 
turned  to  the  office  to  complete  some  work  that 


104  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

was  pressing  upon  me.  I  was  the  confidential 
clerk  of  the  firm,  and  had  a  key  that  admitted 
me  to  the  offices  at  any  time.  It  was  late  at 
night  when  I  finished  what  I  had  to  do,  and  I 
had  turned  out  the  gas  preparatory  to  leaving, 
when  I  heard  a  slight  noise  in  the  next  room. 
I  was  an  old  man  even  at  that  time,  and  I  was 
timorous.  I  thought  that  it  would  be  best  for 
me  to  conceal  myself,  and  then  if  anything 
happened  I  could  later  give  the  alarm.  I  saw 
a  figure  enter  the  room  in  which  I  was.  I  saw 
the  person,  whose  features  the  darkness  did 
not  then  permit  me  to  distinguish,  grope  his 
way  to  the  safe  and  open  it.  For  some  time 
he  rummaged  among  the  papers,  but  evidently 
not  being  able  to  find  what  he  sought,  he  drew 
what  I  supposed  to  be  a  match-case  from  his 
pocket  and  lit  a  match.  I  saw  Kobert  Pruden 
standing  before  that  safe  as  clearly  as  I  ever 
saw  any  man  in  my  life  ;  I  saw  him  extract  a 
small  bundle  from  it ;  saw  him  close  the  door, 
blow  out  the  match,  make  his  way  back  across 
the  room.  I '  " 

"  Your  father  wrote  that  ?  "  said  Harding. 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

"  You  can  look  at  it,"  said  Colby,  holding  up 


A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA  105 

the  paper  so  that  Harding  could  see  the  writ 
ing  across  the  large  office-table. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  its  authen 
ticity  ;  there,  in  old  Colby's  clerkly  characters, 
in  that  handwriting  he  knew  almost  as  well  as 
his  own,  were  the  words  that  had  just  been 
read  to  him. 

"  The  thing's  worth  a  gold  mine  to  you,"  said 
Colby. 

"  It  is  evidently  only  a  question  with  you  of 
how  much  money  you  can  get?  "  said  Harding, 
with  interrogatory  inflection. 

"  Oh,  how  much  ain't  for  me  to  say.  I'm 
not  here  to  bargain.  There  ain't  no  market- 
price  on  such  things,  and  the  amount  is  bound 
to  vary  according  to  the  purchaser.  I've  got 
something  here  that's  to  be  got  nowhere  else — 
I'm  the  only  shop  dealing  in  just  this  kind  of 
goods  ;  it's  a  fancy  article,  and  I  naturally  look 
to  get  money  for  it.  Now,  just  you  say  what 
you  think  it's  worth  to  you,  and  then •" 

Harding  did  not  answer,  but,  stepping  to  a 
desk,  he  hurriedly  filled  out  a  check. 

"  There,"  he  said,  turning  and  holding  out 
the  narrow  slip  of  paper.  "Not  a  cent  more." 

A  quick  gleam  of  satisfied  covetousness 
shone  for  an  instant  in  young  Colby's  dull  eyes. 


106  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

"  It  don't  take  gentlemen  long  to  understand 
one  another,  does  it  ?  "  he  said,  with  the  first 
respectful  intonation  his  voice  had  held. 

"  I  think  that  is  all." 

"  I  think,"  answered  Colby,  with  a  nervous 
laugh,  "  that  we'll  call  this  little  matter  ended 
and  part  friends." 

Few  things  in  life  had  power  to  awe  him, 
but  the  ability  of  a  man  to  draw  his  check  for 
such  an  amount  abashed  and,  without  question, 
filled  him  with  an  admiration  and  reverence 
that  hardly  any  other  manifestation  of  human 
power  could  have  caused. 

"  Go,  then,  and "  began  Harding,  with  a 

gesture  of  dismissal — "take  that  side-door; 
you  need  not  go  back  through  the  offices." 

With  an  utter  absence  of  the  jaunty  confi 
dence  with  which  he  had  entered,  Colby  opened 
the  door  to  which  Harding  pointed. 

"  I'd  thank  you,"  he  faltered,  "  only  I  know 
that  obligations  are  mutual." 

And  he  was  gone. 

It  had  not  been  difficult  for  Harding  to  keep 
himself  from  any  undue  exhibition  of  his  per 
turbation  during  the  interview,  so  surprisingly 
brief  for  one  of  such  moment ;  his  very  excite 
ment,  in  raising  him,  as  it  were,  to  a  higher 


A  DEEDLE88  DRAMA  107 

level  of  emotion,  had  made  all  his  words  and 
actions  accordant  and  consistent,  and  precluded 
that  abruptness  that  is  generally  the  first  indi 
cation  of  unusual  agitation.  It  happens  but 
rarely  that  a  man  experiences  so  absolute  a 
change  of  feeling  in  so  short  a  time.  But  ten 
minutes  before  he  had  felt  the  outrage  of  un 
just  accusation — -an  accusation  that,  after  hav 
ing  been  almost  mute  for  years,  had  at  last, 
when  patience  was  exhausted  and  power  of  en 
durance  almost  lost,  found  condensed  and  effec 
tive  utterance  at  a  time  when  of  all  others  it 
was  most  calculated  to  do  him  serious  harm  ; 
ten  minutes  before  he  had  felt  the  blind  wrath 
of  his  utter  powerlessness — that  wrath  that, 
springing  from  a  sense  of  injustice  done,  makes 
the  human  being  eager  to  shake  the  support  of 
all  things  as  the  strong  man  did  the  pillars  at 
Dagon's  feast,  and  involve  himself  and  every 
one  in  general  destruction.  It  had  all  passed 
so  rapidly  that  as  yet  he  hardly  realized  what 
had  really  happened.  Sitting  at  the  desk  on 
which  he  had  written  the  check,  he  let  his 
head  fall  upon  his  folded  arms,  unconscious  of 
the  darkness  of  closed  eyelids  and  the  prison 
ing  grasp  of  his  hands  about  his  forehead,  for 
suddenly  life  seemed  newly  illumed,  and  his 


108  A  DEEDLE8S  DRAMA 

spirit  strangely  free.  Now,  for  the  first  time 
in  fifteen  years,  he  experienced  something  of 
the  joy  of  unrestrained  existence  ;  now  seemed 
able  to  meet  the  curious  and  accusative  glances, 
the  expressive  silences ;  now  he  had  a  response 
for  every  unasked  question ;  and  now  he  felt 
in  anticipation  the  thrilling  exultation  of  re 
venge.  A  man  does  not  live  for  fifteen  years  at 
conscious  variance  with  his  kind  without  some 
hardening  of  the  heart,  some  embitterment  of 
the  spirit,  and  Harding  experienced  now  al 
most  the  joy  of  a  conqueror  overcoming  a 
hostile  race.  He  had  been  a  successful  man, 
but  all  that  he  had  won  had  been  difficult  of 
acquirement ;  and  he  felt  a  malevolent  resent 
ment  against  mankind  who  had  made  his  life 
so  difficult,  such  as  the  miner  may  feel  against 
the  obdurate  soil,  or  a  fisherman  against  the 
cruel  and  baffling  sea.  Now  all  was  changed. 
As  if  at  some  incantation,  in  response  to  his 
desire  for  vengeance,  this  ugly  distortion  of  hu 
manity  had  appeared  and  given  into  his  hands 
power  as  absolute  as  any  invoked  and  willing 
demon  could  confer.  Now  he  held  the  means 
of  reinstating  himself,  of  ruining  another,  and 
that  other  the  one  who  had  sought  to  injure 
him.  He  thought,  as  he  almost  lay  upon  the 


A  DEEDLE88  DRAMA  109 

desk,  that  he  could  not  act  too  quickly ;  and 
yet  he  did  not  stir. 

Again  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  connect 
ing  with  the  other  offices. 

He  did  not  even  raise  his  head. 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

At  his  sudden  command,  the  clerk  who  had 
before  appeared  again  entered. 

"There  is  a  lady  in  the  outer  room  who 
wishes  to  speak  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  man. 
"  She  will  not  tell  her  business." 

"  Say  I'm  engaged,"  answered  Harding,  per 
emptorily. 

The  man  hesitated.  Something  had  evidently 
impressed  either  his  judgment  or  his  imagina 
tion,  and  he  was  visibly  unwilling  to  depart 
with  such  message  of  dismissal.  He  stood 
mutely  advocating  the  desired  interview  in  the 
silently  expressive  way  known  to  all  employees. 
Unsettled,  unnerved,  unmanned  as  Harding 
was,  even  such  influence  possessed  strange  co 
ercive  power. 

"Let  her  come  in,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  Bring  her  through  the  hall  by  the  side-door." 

The  clerk  disappeared,  and  almost  on  the 
instant  Harding  had  forgotten  the  interruption. 


110  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

His  thoughts  were  busy  again  with  the  great 
fact  of  his  emancipation,  and  fancy  was  active 
fashioning  his  probable  future.  In  quick  vis 
ionary  sequence  he  saw  the  scenes  of  the  new 
life  that  was  before  him — a  life  of  lessened  re 
pression  and,  in  his  freedom  of  action,  of  larger 
attainment.  With  this  stigma  removed,  what 
might  not  be  possible  for  him — with  this  elec 
tion  gained,  what  high  offices  might  not  be  open 
to  him ! 

After  a  knock  of  warning — a  moment's  pause 
— the  door  through  which  Colby  had  made  his 
exit  opened,  and  a  woman  was  ushered  in  by 
the  clerk.  Her  veil  was  so  thick  that  even  in  a 
stronger  light  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
distinguish  her  features,  and  her  drapery  was 
so  voluminous  as  utterly  to  conceal  her  figure. 

"  I  should  like,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said,  with 
her  voice  only  raised  to  half  its  usual  power, 
"  to  speak  with  you  alone." 

Harding's  frame  seemed  suddenly  to  stiffen, 
as  the  body  of  an  animal  stiffens  after  the 
death-blow,  and  then  as  quickly  relaxed. 

"  You  may  go,"  he  said  to  the  man. 

Hardly  had  the  door  closed  when  he  was  on 
his  feet. 

"  Ethel !  "  he  cried. 


A  DEEDLE88  DRAMA  111 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  quietly  and  sadly,  as 

she  unwound  the  veil  that  in  its  density  seemed 

almost  a  scarf.      "  Ethel   Burdyne,    when  we 

last  spoke  to  each  other  alone,  fifteen  years  ago 

—but  not  Ethel  Burdyne  now." 

Harding  stood  looking  curiously  at  her. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  she  went  on.  "  Why 
have  you  not,  in  all  that  time,  sought  once  to 
talk  with  me  ?  " 

"  What  had  I  to  say  ?  Long  ago  I  said  all 
that  a  man  can  say  to  a  woman — I  said  I  loved 
you.  After  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  say. 
I  have  never  had  anything  to  add,  nothing  to 
take  away.  I  have  lived,  silent  and  as  best  I 
might,  the  life  that  was  left  to  me." 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  It  is  strange ;  we  have 
lived  in  the  same  place  ;  at  first  we  met  in  the 
same  drawing-rooms,  sometimes  at  the  same 
dinner-tables,  with  only  a  formal  word  ;  latterly 
we  have  driven  past  each  other  in  the  street  or 
park  with  a  hardly  more  formal  bow.  We  have 
been  as  much  separated  as  if  we  were  in  dif 
ferent  zones.  Has  it  been  necessary  ?  Be 
cause " 

"  Because  you  would  not  marry  me  —  no ; 
because  you  did  me  a  great  wrong — yes.  Why 
do  you  speak  of  all  this  ?  Why " 


112  A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA 

11  Because  I  wish  to  remind  you  that  it  was 
not  always  so.  There  was  a  time  when  we 
could  speak  directly — with  mutual  confidence. 
We  must  do  so  again.  We  must  speak  as  if 
we  were  still — friends." 

"  You  ask  me  to  remember ;  you  should  ask 
me  to  forget.  When  you  have  made  my  years 
what  they  have  been,  when — but  I  will  not  re 
proach  you  even  now.  I  should  have  won 
you ;  it  is  not  the  woman's  fault  if  she  is  not 
won.  But  fault  or  no  fault,  you  see  what  my 
life  has  been." 

"  A  life  successful,  powerful." 

"  I  am  rich,  influential,  feared  even ;  but  I 
am  more  without  a  home  than  one  of  the  horses 
in  my  stables ;  as  much  without  human  sym 
pathy  as  a  machine  in  one  of  my  factories." 

"But  you  might  have  all.  Many  another 
since " 

"  It  may  be  admirable  or  it  may  not,  but  I 
cannot  change.  I  have  never  been  envious  of 
a  nature  that  can  vary.  I  lost  you,  by  the  in 
justice " 

"  I  know  what  you  wish  to  say.  Do  not  say 
it — do  not  accuse  me ;  I  acknowledge  my  guilt 
before  the  accusation.  But  if  suffering " 

"  Then  you  know  you  did  me  wrong,"  he 


A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA  113 

cried,  with  a  quick  break  of  exultation  in  his 
voice ;  "  that  I  was  no  thief  ?  " 

They  had  spoken  hurriedly — with  short  sen 
tences  overlapping  and  breaking  in  upon  each 
other,  like  people  speaking  from  dock  and  deck 
when  a  vessel  is  rapidly  borne  away  from  the 
shore. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  But  you  do  not — 
you  cannot  know  all."  She  paused  as  one  who 
fears  that  the  distracting  influence  of  her  emo 
tion  may  lead  her  from  a  pre  -  established 
course.  "  It  is  because  of  that  hateful  story — 
that  miserable  thing — that  I  am  here.  I  would 
not  have  come  for  myself — I  would  not  have 
come  for  yourself.  It  is  only  for  another  that 
I  came." 

"For  whom?" 

"My  husband,"  she  replied.  "This  morn 
ing  I  received  a  letter  from  an  old  woman  to 
whom  I  had  done  some  kindnesses — the  wife 
of  a  man  named  Colby,  who  was  the  book 
keeper  of  your  old  firm — in  which  she  said 
that  her  son,  a  man  evidently  utterly  dissolute 
and  worthless,  had  stolen  from  her  a  statement 
made  by  her  husband,  in  which  he  accused  my 
husband  of  being  the  man  who  stole  the  money. 
She  said  that  she  could  only  imagine  that  her 
8 


114  A  DEEDLES8  DRAMA 

son  intended  to  use  the  paper  to  obtain  money 
from  you,  and  that  because  of  the  gratitude  she 
felt  toward  me,  she  wished  to  warn  me.  Has 
any  such  person  brought  you  such  a  paper  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  it  now?  " 

"  Yes." 

"You  bought  this  stolen  declaration — you 
paid  this  man  money  for  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  intend  to  make  use  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  James,"  she  said,  stepping  toward  him, 
"  you  must  not  do  it." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  ask  you." 

He  laughed  harshly,  almost  brutally. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying — do  you 
realize  what  you  are  asking  me  to  give  up? 
Have  you  seen  The  Multiple  this  morning  ?  " 

"  What  appeared  in  The  Multiple  was  wholly 
without  my  husband's  knowledge  or  sanction. 
I  know  that  he  has  always  refused  to  make  use 
of  the  scandal.  He  has  resisted  his  temptation 
nobly  ;  do  you  now  resist  yours." 

The  strange  parallelism  of  her  present  posi 
tion  with  that  in  which  she  had  been  placed  in 


A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA  115 

the  morning  bewildered  her.  Again  she  was 
entreating  a  man  to  refrain  from  doing  injury 
to  another,  and  again  the  injury  from  which 
she  besought  a  man  to  abstain  was  the  same. 

"  His  temptation !  "  said  Harding,  and  the 
dense  significance  of  the  word  seemed  edged 
with  a  burning  scorn.  "His  temptation  !  "  he 
repeated.  "  What  was  his  temptation  ?  He  is 
honored,  praised ;  it  would  not  add  a  particle  to 
the  esteem  in  which  he  is  held  if  he  succeeded 
in  sinking  me  still  lower  than  I  am  in  public  ap 
preciation.  In  lowering  me  he  would  not  raise 
himself.  Where  was  his  temptation  ?  A  temp 
tation  in  which  no  active  action  was  required 
— only  mere  abstinence.  He  had  only  to  do 
nothing,  to  lose  nothing.  Did  he  not  know 
that  men  must  say,  '  See  how  magnanimous  he 
is.'  Would  he  have  acted  as  he  has,  if  he  had 
been  obliged  to  act  without  the  world's  knowl 
edge  of  what  was  done,  as  I  must  if  I  do  what 
you  wish  ?  What  is  offered  to  me  if  I  yield  ? 
For  years  I  have  been  a  pariah — my  name 
blackened  by  a  shameful  story.  I  am  offered 
liberation  from  more  than  physical  bondage.  I 
have  but  to  speak,  and  I  am  not  only  free,  but 
I  am  avenged.  Do  you  think  that,  with  my 
nature,  all  these  years  have  not  made  me 


116  A  DEEDLE8S  DRAMA 

resentful — not  made  me  madly  revengeful? 
Can  you  believe  that  now,  when,  in  the  first 
realization  of  a  hope  almost  unhoped,  I  stand 
ready  to  strike,  I  shall  withhold  the  blow  be 
cause  the  woman  who  married  him  rather  than 
me — although  she  be  you — asks  me  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  And  yet,"  she  said,  steadily,  "  you  will  do 
it." 

He  laughed  again,  a  rattling  laugh  as  hard 
as  the  rattle  of  shaken  dice. 

"Will  do  it?"  he  repeated.  "Either  you 
are  mad  or  I.  Will  do  it,  because  he  did  not 
see  fit  to  make  use  of  a  slander  that  lay  ready 
at  his  hand?  Will  do  it,  because  when  he 
knew  me  innocent  he  did  not  choose  to  pro 
claim  rne  guilty?  We  are  all  of  us  heroes, 
then,  if  we  only  knew  it,  because  we  do  not 
bear  false  witness  against  our  neighbors." 

"But  if  he  thought  you  guilty  ?  " 

"  That  is  impossible.  How  could  he  think 
that  I  had  done  what  he  knew  that  he  himself 
did?" 

"  James,"  she  said,  "  trust  me.  I  have  not 
done  so  much  for  you  that  I  can  ask  you  to  do 
it  as  a  right,  but  I  ask  it  humbly  of  your  gen 
erosity.  Do  what  I  wish  without  further  ques 
tion  ;  and,  believe  me,  if  you  understood  all, 


A  DEEDLE8S  DRAMA  117 

you  would  not  repent  it.  As  you  once  loved 
me " 

"  There  can  be  no  light  without  shadow — no 
love  without  hate.  I  loved  you  once — I  almost 
hate  you  now." 

"James,  James,"  she  cried,  coming  nearer 
to  him,  "  will  you  drive  me  to  it  ?  Will  you 
cruelly  compel  me " 

"  Should  you  expect  mercy  from  me  ?  When 
I  was  innocent  you  doubted  me,  and  married 
him  who  was  really  guilty." 

"  If  I  can  urge  nothing  that  can  influence 
you,"  she  almost  moaned,  "I  must  tell  you. 
Robert  Pruden  never  stole  that  money." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"Because  I  know  that  it  was  stolen  by  an 
other." 

"  What  other  ?  "  he  asked,  in  what  was  almost 
a  gasp. 

"  My  father,"  she  answered,  looking  him  full 
in  the  face. 

For  a  moment  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
The  hum  of  voices  continued  in  the  room  be 
yond,  and  from  the  distant  street  trembled  up 
the  noise  of  traffic.  But  they  heard  nothing. 
To  both  of  them  it  seemed  as  if  the  every-day, 


118  A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA 

habitual  world  were  far  away,  as  foreign  as  it 
might  seem  to  the  conscious  dead. 

"  Now  you  know  the  truth,"  she  continued, 
lowering  her  voice.  "Now  you  know  why  I 
dared  to  come  here.  My  suffering — your  suf 
fering — would  not  have  brought  me ;  suffering 
is  perhaps  our  lot.  The  danger  that  threatened 
another — my  husband — a  danger  that  could  be 
averted  by  me,  was  all  that  made  me  come — it 
was  my  duty.  Long  ago,  before  my  father 
died,  I  learned  the  truth  from  him ;  in  his  re- 
pentence  for  what  he  had  done,  he  told  me. 
On  the  night  the  money  was  taken  he  was  con 
cealed  in  the  office,  waiting  for  Colby  to  finish 
his  work  and  go.  He  saw  Robert  Pruden  open 
the  safe  and  remove  some  private  papers. 
When  he  was  finally  alone  he  unlocked  the 
safe  and  took  the  money.  He  had  speculated 
and  lost.  He  hoped  to  return  the  money,  but 
the  loss  had  been  discovered,  and  when  he  was 
able  to  act,  it  was  too  late.  With  his  reputa 
tion,  he  stood  above  suspicion ;  you,  with  your 
manner  of  life,  laid  yourself  open  to  distrust 
and  were  condemned.  He  could  do  nothing 
except  confess,  and  that  he  was  never  strong 
enough  to  do.  I  never  doubted  you  even  when 
I  did  not  know  the  truth,  or,  if  I  did  doubt,  it 


A   DEEDLE88  DRAMA  119 

did  not  influence  my  feelings.  But  you  were 
proud,  and  from  the  first,  when  you  knew  that 
you  were  suspected,  you  carried  yourself  with  a 
certain  reserve.  I  perhaps  should  have  sought 
to  make  you  understand  me ;  but  then  I  did 
not  understand  myself.  A  girl's  pride — for  a 
moment's  pique  she  will  not  utter  the  word 
that  may  assure  a  future.  You  held  aloof,  and 
in  time  I  married  Robert  Pruden.  Now  you 
know  all,  and  now  you  will  not  do  what  a  mo 
ment  ago  you  threatened  to  do." 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"  No,"  said  Harding,  and  the  word  edged  its 
way  through  his  closed  lips.  "  I  will  not  be 
stopped.  Do  you  think  that  after  the  injustice 
of  years  I  shall  be  deterred  by  the  fact  that  I 
may  be  unjust  ?  The  position,  for  all  purposes 
of  freedom  or  revenge,  is  the  same.  I  have 
but  to  publish  this  statement.  He  cannot  dis 
prove  it ;  you  will  not  speak,  or  if  you  do  the 
world  would  not  heed  you.  They  would  say 
that  you  were  demented — a  daughter  who  be 
trayed  her  father  would  be  too  unnatural — and 
even  if  you  were  believed,  my  end  would  be 
gained  ;  I  should  be  held  innocent.  I  shall  do 
as  I  have  been  done  by ;  the  accusation  that 
has  been  upon  me  for  years  will  be  transferred 


120  A  DEEDLESS  DRAMA 

to  him  ;  unjustly,  perhaps,  but  why  should  I 
alone  suffer?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  cannot  do 
it." 

"You  spoke  of  temptations,"  he  went  on, 
disregarding  her.  "  What  is  my  temptation 
now  ?  How  much  harder  is  it  for  me  to  resist 
doing  this  wrong  than  it  was  for  him  merely 
to  do  something  that  was  only  fairly  right  ?  If 
I  do  not  do  this,  what  is  my  future  but  a  con 
tinuation  of  my  past — a  hell  of  doubt  and 
scorn  ?  When  he  withheld,  as  you  say  he  did, 
from  injuring  me,  what  had  he  to  apprehend  ? 
Nothing.  He  could  live  on  as  he  always  had 
lived,  but  I — the  man  with  a  story — I  must  al 
ways  see  the  world  glance  at  me  askance." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  it  is  often  harder 
to  resist  doing  wrong  than  simply  to  do  right 
— that  repression  often  requires  more  courage 
than  action.  But  you  will  do  it — do  it  for 
yourself  and  for  me." 

She  stepped  forward,  bending  almost  as  if 
she  would  fall  at  his  feet.  He,  with  the  first 
agony  of  his  disappointment,  the  first  fury  of 
his  anger  past,  and  the  period  of  doubt  begun, 
stood  as  if  unconscious  of  her  presence. 

"James,"   she   said,  and  with  self-mocking 


A  DEED  LESS  DRAMA  121 

bitterness  she  thought  how  much  her  words 
were  an  echo  of  those  she  had  spoken  in  the 
morning,  "  we  have  not  made  so  very  much  out 
of  our  lives,  you  and  I,  but  we  have  not  acted 
wrongly  after  all.  Do  not  let  us  spoil  all  now. 
There  is  something  strengthening,  self-sustain 
ing  in  suffering.  It  will  not  be  so  hard.  Be 
lieve  me — I  tell  you  so — I  myself  who  have 
known — 

Still  he  gave  no  sign  that  he  was  aware  that 
she  had  spoken  to  him ;  impassive  in  his  absorp 
tion,  he  stood  seemingly  looking  through  and 
beyond  her,  while  she,  with  clasped  hands  and 
pale,  anxious  face,  remained  waiting  his  further 
action.  What  did  he  see  ?  The  dark  stretches 
of  later  life,  sombre  at  best,  but  more  sombre 
for  him  than  for  another  if  he  did  not  act.  He 
must  give  up  all,  bid  stand  still  the  dark  wrong 
that  eclipsed  his  whole  existence ;  blot  out  joy 
and  hope  such  as  he  had  not  known  in  years. 
With  the  weapon  in  his  hand  he  must  cast  it 
away,  because  the  blow  was  unworthy  of  an 
honest  man;  must  condemn  himself,  as  but 
few  condemn  themselves,  for  he  knew  the  full 
measure  of  his  condemnation  ;  must  consent  to 
see  another  honored  and  himself  despised ; 
and  worst,  bitterest  of  all,  must  hear  another 


122  A   DEED  LESS  DRAMA 

praised  for  refraining  from  doing  something 
that,  though  it  palely  resembled  the  act  he  was 
compelled  in  honor  to  perform,  was  as  differ 
ent  from  it  as  the  shadow  from  the  substance — 
something  that,  from  the  very  weakness  of  its 
similarity,  made  the  plaudits  that  it  would  win 
and  which  he  could  never  hope  to  hear  for  his 
mightier  renunciation,  the  more  unbearable. 
Such  was  the  fate  that  awaited  him,  did  he  do 
but  what  he  ought  in  honesty  to  do. 

A  slight  sigh  broke  from  him.  If  the  silence 
had  not  been  so  perfect  she  could  not  have 
heard  it,  but  as  she  did,  the  light  of  an  infinite 
happiness  shone  in  her  eyes. 

Picking  up  the  paper  that  had  lain  on  the 
desk  ever  since  he  had  received  it,  Harding 
handed  it  to  her.  Neither  spoke.  Dragging 
the  fluttering  thing  from  his  grasp,  she  seized 
the  trembling  hand  that  had  held  it  out  to  her 
and  pressed  it  against  her  side,  above  her 
heart,  with  all  her  force  —  pressing  it  down 
until  he  felt  the  indentation  made  by  a  fold  of 
her  heavily  embroidered  dress. 

He  heard  the  door  close,  and,  looking  up,  he 
found  himself  alone. 


AS   THE    SPARKS    FLY    UP 
WARD  " 


AS   THE    SPARKS    FLY    UP 
WARD  " 


IT  was  past  the  time  when  the  "through" 
night  express  should  start,  but  still  the 
ponderous  engine  stood  motionless ;  the  steam 
escaping  with  a  terrific  roar,  and  mounting- 
high  in  the  air,  first  in  a  vigorous  jet,  then 
spreading  in  dull,  whitened  clouds  that  soon 
mingled  with  and  were  lost  in  the  denser  mass 
and  greater  volume  of  the  rolling  smoke.  The 
hands  of  the  illuminated  clock,  placed  on  the 
depot  wall,  had  passed  the  points  on  the  dial 
that  indicated  the  hour  of  departure,  and  now 
stood  at  not  more  than  a  minute  after;  but 
even  so  small  a  particle  of  time  was  of  impor 
tance,  for  this,  the  night  express,  was  the  par 
ticular  feature  of  this  particular  road,  and  to 
get  it  to  its  destination  at  the  advertised  in 
stant  was  the  duty  and  pride  of  every  employee ; 
for  this,  every  resource  of  the  great  corporation 


126    «A8  THE  SPAXKS  FLY   UPWARD" 

was  employed,  every  sacrifice  of  other  consid 
erations  made.  Over  those  miles  and  miles  of 
shining  rails,  on  which  the  train  must  run  all 
night,  lay  the  road  from  West  to  East  and  from 
East  to  West,  and  upon  the  speed  and  certainty 
with  which  they  were  covered  depended  many 
an  important  affair — the  success  or  failure  of 
many  a  business  venture,  often  of  many  a  po 
litical  combination. 

The  station-master  hurried  up  to  the  engine 
and  looked  in  the  window. 

"What's  the  matter,  Irby?"  he  said  to  the 
engineer. 

"Spurlock's  not  here,"  answered  the  man, 
who  sat  on  the  narrow,  transverse  seat  in  the 
cab,  with  his  hand  on  the  heavy,  shining, 
round-tipped  handle  of  the  reverse-lever. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Don't  know,"  replied  Irby.  "  He  stepped 
off  five  minutes  ago,  saying  he'd  be  back  di 
rectly." 

"If  he  isn't  here  in  thirty  seconds  I'll  have 
to  give  you  another  fireman." 

Everything  indicated  readiness  for  depart 
ure.  The  loungers  along  the  broad,  cemented 
walk  of  the  station — those  who  had  sought  a 
little  exercise  before  the  long,  cramped  ride— 


"AS  TEE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     127 

had  mounted  to  the  cars ;  and  the  porters,  after 
picking  up  the  little  stools  placed  before  the 
steps  of  the  "sleepers,"  stood  ready  all  along 
the  line  to  swing  themselves  on  to  the  plat 
forms  as  soon  as  the  series  of  jarring  jerks 
with  which  a  train  straightens  itself  out  for 
work,  indicated  that  the  "  7.30  "  was  off. 

The  scene  as  it  now  presented  itself — a  min 
ute  and  -more  after  the  time  when  "  No.  47  " 
should  have  been  under  way — was  character 
istically  American,  for  nowhere  else  in  the 
world  is  quite  its  like  to  be  found.  The  huge 
arched  station — so  large  that,  numerous  as 
were  the  hard,  clear,  powerful  electric  lights, 
there  still  were  left  many  areas  of  gloom — 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  multitudinous 
sounds,  and,  closing  your  eyes,  you  might  al 
most  have  imagined  yourself  in  an  asylum  for 
demented  noises,  the  air  was  so  burdened  with 
the  sustained  uproar,  distressed  by  such  brazen 
clangor,  torn  by  so  many  a  wild  shriek.  The 
gleaming  steel  rails  banded  the  broad,  boarded 
space,  stretching  in  innumerable  lines  far  across 
to  the  opposite  Avail;  now  running  with  the 
parallel  exactness  of  a  copy-book;  now  cross 
ing  and  recrossing  each  other  in  what  seemed 
inextricable  confusion.  Long  strings  of  cars, 


128    "AS  THE  SPARKS  FL7   UPWARD" 

their  windows  all  aglow,  stood  here  or  there — 
just  arrived,  or  just  on  the  point  of  leaving — 
this  train  "  in,"  after  having  run  all  day  along 
the  shores  of  the  great  lakes ;  that  ready  to 
plunge  into  the  dark  Pennsylvania  forests,  and 
hurry  away,  perhaps,  past  some  flaming  oil- 
well  into  the  more  distant  coal-fields.  People 
swarmed  everywhere  —  passengers  and  em 
ployees,  baggage-men,  brakemen,  and  express 
men.  Heavy  trucks,  overloaded  with  luggage, 
were  wildly  trundled  through  the  place  ;  small 
iron  carriages,  piled  high  with  mail-bags,  were 
recklessly  rolled  past ;  and  in  and  out  darted 
the  bearers  of  flaming  torches  that  cast  a  wild 
glare  about  them  as  they  moved,  who,  with 
long-handled  hammers  tested  the  car-wheels 
with  ringing  blows.  And  away  in  the  distance, 
where  the  immense,  arched  opening  of  the  sta 
tion  permitted  a  glimpse  of  the  darkness  be 
yond,  gleamed  innumerable  lights — green,  red, 
and  orange — some  stationary  and  arranged  in 
complex  designs,  others  swinging  in  eccentric 
circles,  or  flitting  like  the  ignesfatui  of  swamp 
lands,  along  the  ground,  now  appearing  and 
now  disappearing. 

"  Here  he  comes  ! "  shouted  a  voice  some 
where  in  remote  darkness. 


11  A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWABD"    129 

"  Hurry  up,"  commanded  the  station-master ; 
and,  with  a  running  accompaniment  of  ques 
tions,  exhortations,  and  admonitions,  lit  up 
by  some  scattered  execrations,  a  slight  man, 
dressed  in  the  blackened  and  greasy  overalls 
and  "  jumper  "  of  a  laborer,  ran  along  the  walk 
and  mounted  the  engine. 

"  Let  her  go,  Dan,"  he  said. 

The  engineer  glanced  at  the  conductor  lean 
ing  against  the  wall ;  saw  him  quickly  shut  his 
watch  and  wave  his  hand.  One  pull  on  a  lever, 
and  the  piston-rods  began  to  glide  out  and  in, 
the  huge  driving-wheels  to  revolve,  and  the 
train,  with  almost  a  dislocating  shock,  so  hur 
ried  had  been  the  start,  was  finally  off. 

"  What  was  it,  Jeff?  "  said  Irby. 

"Why,"  answered  Spuiiock,  with  a  hardly 
perceptible  hesitation,  "  a  little  celebration  of 
my  own.  Do  you  forget  what  night  it  is  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  other  and  older  man,  a 
trifle  sharply.  "But  what  did  you  promise 
me?" 

"  It's  only  once  a  year,"  responded  Spurlock, 
sullenly,  "  and  I  haven't  touched  a  thing  for  ten 
weeks." 

Irby  did  not  answer,  but  peered  out  into  the 
darkness  through  the  narrow  cab  window. 
9 


130     "AS   THE  SPARKS  FLY   UPWARD" 

The  depot  had  been  left  behind,  and  the  en 
gine  was  now  passing  through  the  outer  busi 
ness  belt  of  the  great  city.  Huge,  silent  ware- 
nouses,  with  their  shutters  closed,  quite  as  if 
they  had  gone  to  sleep  with  iron  lids  shut  over 
their  innumerable  eyes,  were  to  be  seen  along 
the  deserted  streets  ;  high  chimneys  here  and 
there  rose  above  the  roofs — they  might  have 
been  columns  supporting  the  leaden  sky — the 
dull  clouds  of  smoke  that  lazily  seemed  to  over 
flow  them  only  distinguishable  from  the  dark 
heavens  by  their  greater  density.  It  had  been 
snowing  during  the  early  evening,  but  the 
flakes  had  melted  as  they  fell,  and  the  ill-paved 
roads  were  full  of  spreading  pools  that  caught 
the  rays  cast  by  the  glowing  embers  in  the  en 
gine's  fire-box,  and,  seeming  to  hold  them  for 
an  instant  in  dull  reflection,  threw  them  weakly 
back.  And  now  the  pavements  cease  alto 
gether  ;  no  longer  are  there  any  gas-lamps  or 
electric  lights  to  reveal  the  dripping  squalor, 
but  as  one  looks  ahead  there  are  to  be  seen  by 
the  spreading  illumination  of  the  headlight 
only  the  shining,  converging  rails,  and  between 
them,  and  on  either  side,  the  sodden,  half- 
frozen  earth.  Now  only  infrequent  buildings 
start  into  view ;  but  there  appear  instead  long, 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"    131 

shadowy  lines  of  freight-cars,  apparently  in 
numerable,  drawn  up  on  either  side  of  the 
track,  by  which  the  engine  thunders  with  re 
verberating  clatter — the  strange  but  still  famil 
iar  characters,  letters,  and  names  on  their  many 
colored  sides — the  stars,  the  diamonds,  the 
crosses,  the  often-repeated  initials,  the  num 
bers,  reaching  sometimes  into  the  tens  of  thou 
sands — only  showing  for  an  instant  in  the  dim 
rays  cast  by  the  single  light  in  the  engine,  and 
then  quickly  blotted  out  by  the  broad  hand  of 
darkness.  At  length  these,  too,  are  gone,  and 
now  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  occa 
sional  hut  of  some  switch- tender,  and  the  con 
stantly  recurring  telegraph  poles  that  so  rapidly 
flash  in  and  out  of  sight.  Far  behind  appears 
in  the  sky  a  dull,  orange  glow  that  marks  the 
position  of  the  town  that  has  been  left  behind, 
but  all  before  is  unbroken  blackness.  Now,  at 
last,  the  train  has  reached  the  open  country. 
Irby  pushes  the  throttle-valve  still  further 
open,  and  the  engine,  with  a  quiver,  almost 
such  as  a  spirited  horse  will  give  at  the  touch 
of  the  spur,  plunges  more  swiftly  forward,  and 
finally  tears  along  at  almost  full  running  speed, 
over  fifty  miles  an  hour,  through  the  night. 
The  narrow  place  in  which  the  men  are 


132    "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

seated,  face  to  face,  is  but  dimly  illuminated. 
They  are  neither  of  them  particularly  excep 
tional-looking  persons ;  you  might  see  their 
like  almost  any  day  through  an  engine's  win 
dow  and  not  turn  to  look  again,  and  still  their 
faces  are  not  without  a  certain  stern  significance 
—the  significance  to  be  found  in  the  counte 
nances  of  most  men  who  have  for  any  length  of 
time  held  what  might  be  called  "non-commis 
sioned  "  office  in  the  army  of  labor,  where, 
though  opportunity  of  honor  is  rare,  responsi 
bility  is  great  and  incessant. 

Irby,  ten  years  the  older  of  the  two,  heavy, 
but  with  a  muscular  strength  that  enables  him 
to  move  with  perfect  ease  in  spite  of  his  stout 
ness,  has  in  his  countenance  that  indescribable 
something  that  indicates  firmness,  even  obsti 
nacy  ;  while  in  the  mobile  features,  more  shift 
ing  glance,  and  more  changeful  expression  of 
his  companion,  you  could  as  readily  detect  the 
equally  evident,  but  more  subtle  evidences  of 
weakness  and  irresolution.  And  yet  he  was  a 
pretty  fellow  enough  with  his  thick,  lustrous, 
black  hair,  and  his  small,  pointed  mustache, 
his  highly  colored  cheeks  and  his  dull,  dark 
eyes.  Of  graceful  build  too — his  belt  was 
drawn  about  a  waist  as  small  almost  as  a  worn- 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"    133 

an's  —  slight  but  lithesome,  a  man  to  surprise 
you  with  unsuspected  strength. 

"  Don't  it  make  you  feel,  Dan,  as  if  we  were 
regularly  out  in  the  cold,"  he  said,  "  to  be  on 
this  job  to-night?" 

"  Well,  you  see,"  answered  Irby,  argumen- 
tatively,  "  all  the  other  boys  have  got  sweet 
hearts  or  wives,  and  it's  only  natural  they 
should  want  the  evening  to  themselves.  Now, 
what's  Christmas  Eve  to  us  —  you,  who  haven't 
got  a  belonging  in  the  world,  as  you  say,  and 


Irby  paused.  Whether  or  not  he  saw  some 
thing  worthy  of  notice  in  what  seemed  the  im 
penetrable  night,  Spurlock  could  not  deter 
mine,  but  the  engineer  looked  through  the 
window  with  what  appeared  increased  atten 
tion. 

"  'Tain't  much  like  one's  general  notion  of  a 
Christmas,"  he  added  at  length. 

"  No,"  answered  Spurlock. 

Neither  spoke  again  for  some  time,  and 
Spurlock  busied  himself  with  the  flapping- 
canvas  curtain  that  gave  doubtful  shelter  to 
the  occupants  of  the  cab,  for  the  icy  wind  blew 
briskly  as  the  scudding  clouds  attested. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Irby  at  length.     "  This 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

time  of  the  year  rather  lends  itself  to  reckon 
ing — how  long  is  it  now  that  we've  travelled 
along  together  ?  " 

"  Going  on  eight  months,"  answered  Spur- 
lock,  "  from  the  time  when  you  first  set  me 
straight." 

Irby  glanced  across  at  the  man  before  him. 
"Set  him  straight."  Yes,  he  had  "set  him 
straight,"  and  the  memory  came  to  him  of  what 
Spurlock  had  been  ;  a  picture  rose  before  him 
of  how  Spurlock  looked  when  he  first  saw  him  ; 
a  thin,  bent  form,  with  pallid  face,  and  trem 
bling,  it  would  almost  seem  palsied  hands, 
dressed  in  a  mysterious  garment  that  was  only 
a  remote  suggestion  of  a  coat,  and  with  all  his 
other  clothes  correspondingly  frayed  and  tat 
tered;  a  being,  coming  from  no  one  knew 
where,  and  going  no  one  cared  whither — slink 
ing  out  to  bask  in  the  sunshine,  as  if  doubtful 
if  the  world,  which  afforded  him  so  little,  might 
not  grudge  and  deny  him  even  this ;  leading 
one  of  those  mysterious,  almost  reptilian  exist 
ences  in  the  dark  holes  and  corners  of  the 
earth,  which,  were  they  not  so  common,  would 
seem  more  awful  and  more  significant,  but 
which,  seen  every  day,  we  scarcely  notice  and 
easily  allow  to  pass  from  memory. 


"AS  THE  8PARK8  FLY  UPWARD"    135 

Irby  had  first  seen  the  ill-looking  creature 
loitering  about  the  confines  of  the  station, 
sometimes  penetrating  even  to  the  engine-yard 
and  standing  at  gaze  before  the  big,  resplen 
dent,  perfectly  "  groomed  "  locomotive — look 
ing  at  it  revengefully,  as  if  resentful  of  the  fact 
that  this  thing  of  iron  and  steel  should  receive 
such  care,  when  he,  a  creature  of  flesh  and 
blood,  was  so  destitute.  Such  as  he  was,  he 
had  been  the  jest,  the  jeer  of  the  whole  place. 
There  was  no  one  so  insignificant  that  he  did 
not  dare  to  scoff  at  him,  and  it  seemed  that 
there  was  no  indignity  that  the  poor  creature 
would  not  endure.  But  one  day  from  his  lofty 
post  Irby  had  noticed  that  a  row  was  going  on. 
In  that  neighborhood — in  the  circles  in  which 
his  locomotive  moved,  that  was  a  thing  of  no 
uncommon  occurrence,  but  this  particular  dif 
ficulty  seemed  more  serious  than  was  commonly 
the  case. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  shouted. 

"  Joe  Bannager's  been  givin'  the  tramp  mor'n 
he  can  stand,  an'  he's  showed  fight,"  was  the 
answer. 

Irby  let  himself  down  from  the  engine  and 
joined  the  crowd  just  in  time  to  see  the  burly 
Bannager,  to  the  admiration  of  the  on-lookers, 


A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD 


very  neatly  knocked  out  of  time  by  the  now 
animated  vagabond. 

"  If  you've  got  spirit  enough  for  that,"  said 
Irby,  looking  curiously  at  the  now  erect  figure 
of  the  stranger,  "  you've  got  spirit  enough  to 
be  a  man.  Come  with  me." 

He  had  taken  Spurlock  over  to  the  engine, 
and  in  its  torrid  shade  had  inspected  him  more 
thoroughly. 

"  If  I  gave  you  money,  would  you  drink  it 
up  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Try  me  and  see,"  said  the  man. 

Irby  handed  him  a  bill,  and  the  next  day 
there  had  appeared  before  him  a  person  whom 
he  did  not  at  first  recognize.  It  was  Spurlock, 
in  a  suit  of  the  poorest  clothing,  but  clean  and 
decent  looking. 

"  Give  me  something  to  do,"  he  said. 

Irby  again  looked  at  him  scrutinizingly.  It 
had  always  been  his  —  Irby's  —  boast,  that  he 
knew  a  man  who  had  anything  in  him  when  he 
saw  one,  and  after  a  moment's  contemplation, 
which  the  other  had  borne  unflinchingly,  he 
spoke  doubtfully. 

"  My  fireman's  laid  up,  perhaps  I  might  get 
you  taken  on." 

"  All  right,"  answered  Spurlock.     "  You've 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"    137 

picked  me  out  of  the  gutter,  now  set  me  on 
the  walk." 

And  this,  Irby  thought,  was  the  same  man 
who  now  sat  opposite  to  him.  Indeed,  Spur- 
lock  had  changed.  As  he  quickly  emerged 
from  his  state  of  degradation,  he  displayed  un 
expected  intelligence,  exhibiting  a  surprising 
knowledge  about  all  sorts  of  unlikely  things. 
Irby,  who  had  started  in  life  with  only  a  lim 
ited  knowledge  of  reading  and  writing,  but  who 
had  graduated  long  ago  with  "  honors  "  from 
the  great  University  of  the  Newspapers,  was 
thoroughly  able  to  appreciate  higher  acquire 
ments  than  his  own,  and  both  marvelled  and 
admired.  Spurlock  never  spoke  of  his  past, 
and  Irby  had  never  asked  him  a  question. 
That  it  was  not  the  usual  past  of  a  man  in  his 
position  Irby  felt  sure  ;  but  they  were  both  of 
that  world  that  should  in  truth  be  called  the 
"  great  world  "  instead  of  the  insignificant  por 
tion  that  now  bears  that  name,  where  few  ques 
tions  are  asked  for  the  reason  that  a  close 
knowledge  of  the  strange  haps  and  mishaps  of 
life  has  dulled  curiosity.  Day  and  night  they 
had  travelled  together  in  the  little  cab,  over 
thousands  of  miles,  through  heat  and  cold, 
through  storm  and  sunshine,  and  gradually 


138    "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

there  had  grown  up  in  Irby  a  real  friendship 
for  this  being  whom  he  had,  as  it  were,  created. 
He  looked  at  Spurlock,  and  reflecting  that  had 
it  not  been  for  him,  the  alert,  self-respecting 
man  who  was  now  his  companion  would  have 
been  in  a  pauper's  grave  or  leading  a  life  than 
which  any  death  would  be  better,  he  took  cred 
it  to  himself  for  what  he  could  almost  regard 
as  his  handiwork,  and  beamed  upon  him  with 
something  like  affection. 

"  Seeing  the  time  it  is,"  said  Spurlock,  at 
length,  "  I've  got  a  Christmas  present  for  you, 
Dan,  and  I  don't  know  but  I  might  as  well  give 
it  to  you  now." 

He  reached  up  and  took  down  his  coat  from 
the  place  where  it  hung,  then  drawing  out  a 
tobacco-pouch,  cheaply  embroidered,  handed  it 
across  to  the  engineer.  Irby  took  it,  opened 
it,  and  found  instead  of  tobacco  a  carefully 
folded  bill. 

"The  money  you  lent  me  that  time,  you 
know,"  explained  Spurlock. 

Irby  stretched  out  his  hand,  with  the  power 
ful,  blunted  fingers,  to  the  younger  man,  who 
took  it  and  shook  it  roughly  with  an  awkward 
consciousness. 

The  wide  plains  that  lay  around  the  city  had 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"    139 

been  swiftly  traversed,  and  now  the  track  ran 
over  land  partly  uncleared.  In  and  out  the  en 
gine  darted  through  the  thick  woods,  plunging 
into  the  narrow  openings  among  the  dark,  ser 
ried  trunks  and  spreading  branches,  as  if  into 
some  tunnelled  mountain. 

"  You've  been  the  making  of  me,  Dan,"  Spur- 
lock  went  on,  "  and  if  I  come  to  anything  now 
it'll  be  your  doing." 

"  The  engine's  seemed  a  different  place  since 
you've  been  on  it,  Jeff,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  an' 
so  I  guess  we're  square." 

Another  of  those  long  silences  followed, 
which  will  occur  between  people  who  are 
constantly  together  —  one  of  those  pauses 
that  indicate  intimacy  more  fully  than  any 
speech. 

"  I  wasn't  always  what  you  found  me,  Dan," 
said  Spurlock,  finally. 

Irby  glanced  at  his  companion. 

"  But  I  began  bad,"  the  other  went  on,  "  and 
I  kept  on  growing  worse.  I  was  the  black 
sheep  of  a  particularly  white  flock,  and,  by 
contrast,  my  color  only  showed  up  the  more. 
Where  I  was  born,  or  what  or  when,  doesn't 
matter.  I  wouldn't  like  to  show  disrespect 
for  any  of  my  highly  respectable  relations  by 


140     "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

bringing  them  into  any  such  unfortunate  so 
ciety  as  mine." 

He  paused,  and  the  expression  of  reckless 
ness  that  had  lain  on  his  countenance,  almost 
like  a  mask — so  evidently  unnatural  was  it — 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  snatched  away. 

"The  fiend  take  it,  Dan,"  said  he,  "there's 
something  in  this  cursed  time  that  sets  you 
remembering." 

Irby's  face  darkened ;  it  appeared  as  if  the 
past  had  also  come  up  before  him  with  unu 
sual  vividness,  and  that  the  vision  was  dis 
quieting  and  painful. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  came  near  being  re 
spectable  in  my  life  but  once,"  continued  Spur- 
lock,  dully,  almost  as  if  some  strange  power 
were  forcing  him  to  speak — as  if  volition  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

"  But,"  he  went  on,  "  we're  generally  stand 
ing  on  the  ground  even  when  we're  looking  at 
the  clouds.  Oh,  of  course  it  was  a  woman 
that  did  it.  You,  Dan,  you  can't  understand 
that ;  you — you've  the  face  of  a  true  misogy 
nist.  You  see,"  he  broke  out,  "  I  haven't  for 
got  all  that  my  little  '  fresh-water '  college 
taught  me.  You're  the  kind  that  are  superior 
to  that  inferior  influence. 


"  AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     141 

"  I  really  believe  that  I  could  have  reformed 
then,"  murmured  Spurlock  after  another  pause, 
"  for  I  loved  her.  Strange  how  you  feel  when 
you  really  love  a  woman.  There  seems  to  come 
out  of  the  very  holes  and  corners  of  your  being, 
feelings  and  sentiments  and  aspirations  that 
you  never  knew  you  had  before.  Mind  I  don't 
say  that  the  same  cause  doesn't  sometimes 
work  a  very  different  way  on  your  nature — 
doesn't  stir  up  and  set  moving  a  number  of 
dark,  ugly  things  also — passions,  jealousies, 
hatreds — that  you  never  suspected  were  in  you. 
Oh,  it's  a  queer  thing  this  love — it's  like  a  streak 
of  varnish  across  the  natural  wood  that  brings 
out  the  beauty  of  the  grain  and  the  unsightliness 
of  the  knots  as  well.  I  loved  her  from  the  first 
time  I  set  my  eyes  on  her  pretty,  pale  face. 
Oh,  don't  be  frightened.  I'm  not  going  to  tell 
you  a  yarn,  for  there's  none  to  tell.  But  Agnes 
Holcombe  was  the  only  one  who  could  ever 
have  made  anything  out  of  me." 

"  Women,"  said  Irby,  slowly,  "  do  a  deal  of 
good  when  they  don't — do  a  deal  of  harm." 

"  She  could  have  been  the  making  of  me. 
But  circumstances " 

"  How  long  ago  was  it  ?  "  interrupted  Irby. 

"  About  eighteen  months." 


142     «A8  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

Eighteen  months.  With  the  instinct  that 
leads  everyone  to  measure  the  nearness  or  re 
moteness  of  an  event  by  its  relation  in  time  to 
his  own  life,  Irby  thought  of  himself  as  he 
had  been  a  year  and  a  half  before.  That,  he 
remembered,  was  before  his  quarrel  with  Ma 
bel  —  before  the  final  separation.  He  ground 
his  teeth  in  sudden  rage.  Could  he  not  get  the 
miserable  affair  out  of  his  mind ;  must  every 
thing  he  heard  or  saw  always  serve  to  remind 
him  of  it? 

The  train  had  now  for  some  time  been  on  its 
way,  dashing  by  isolated  farm-houses  usually 
at  this  hour  merely  black  shapes  in  the  dim 
landscape,  but  to-night  with  windows  all  alight ; 
past  scattered  groups  of  cottages  where  the 
smoke  rolling  comfortably  from  the  chimneys 
suggested  glowing  and  generous  hearths;  in 
and  out  of  villages  where  a  quickly  opened, 
quickly  closed  door  would  often  suddenly  dis 
close  some  bright  interior. 

And  now  the  spreading  glow  in  the  sky  be 
fore  them  proved  that  they  were  again  ap 
proaching  a  city.  Stronger,  brighter,  more 
diffused  it  grew  as  the  train  spun  swiftly  on  ; 
and  finally  the  many  detached  points  of  light 
showed  that  they  were  quite  near.  Again  the 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     143 

engine  plunged  among  long  lines  of  coal- 
trucks  and  freight-cars — again  clattered  by  the 
echoing  walls  of  great  factories,  and  finally,  at 
decreased  speed,  puffed  into  the  city.  As  it 
chanced,  in  this  particular  place  the  tracks  lay 
along  streets  that  crossed  some  of  the  great 
thoroughfares,  and  sometimes  for  a  short  dis 
tance  even  ran  in  them.  It  was  hardly  more 
than  nine  o'clock,  and  the  sidewalks  were 
thronged.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  town 
had  turned  out,  and  yet  there  must  have  been 
many  who  were  at  home.  Every  shop  was 
open — was  brilliant  with  the  best  display  it 
was  possible  for  it  to  make.  Here,  as  at  the 
place  they  had  left,  it  had  evidently  been  snow 
ing  during  the  day,  but  here  the  wind  had 
blown  boisterously  and  long  enough  to  dry  the 
walks  and  bring  a  crackling  sheet  of  ice  on  the 
surface  of  the  street  puddles.  There  was  a 
briskness  in  the  air  well  accordant  with  the 
time,  and  there  was  an  animation  in  the  crowd 
that  clearly  indicated  that  it  was  no  concourse 
such  as  might  ordinarily  be  found  in  and  be 
fore  the  stores.  It  was  much  larger,  it  was 
much  more  alert,  and  it  was  much  more  self- 
satisfied  and  self-important ;  certainly  it  was 
much  jollier.  You  might  have  jostled  it  as 


144    "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

much  as  you  pleased  without  exciting  anything 
but  good-natured  remonstrance ;  you  could 
tread  on  its  toes  with  nearly  perfect  impunity. 
It  was  a  true  Christmas  crowd  in  every  aspect 
and  every  attribute — baskets,  bundles,  and  all 
— and  as  the  great  engine  slowly  ground  its 
way  along,  the  bell  sounding  with  regular 
brazen  clang,  the  two  men  in  the  cab  gazed 
upon  the  animated  spectacle  with  greedy  eyes. 
They  looked  upon  it  all  as  aliens  in  a  double 
sense — separated  from  it  in  situation  and  in 
mood — and  the  knowledge  of  their  twofold  re 
moteness  filled  each  with  a  rebellious  bitter 
ness  that  strengthened  as  they  went  on.  It 
all  seemed  like  some  mocking  show  prepared 
for  their  special  torment — some  deluding  mi 
rage  as  tantalizing  as  the  semblance  of  water  is 
to  the  thirsty  traveller  of  the  desert. 

The  stop  in  the  dark,  nearly  deserted  station 
was  not  long,  and  soon  they  were  out  again 
in  the  populous  quarters  of  the  town.  It  was 
Christmas  time  at  its  brightest  and  best — 
cheerful  Noel  in  its  most  comfortable  mood. 
It  was  Christmas  Eve — more  mirthful,  better 
perhaps  than  Christmas  itself — as  a  promise  is 
often  better  than  a  fulfilment.  That  feeling  of 
the  time  that  calls  upon  all  to  "  eat,  drink,  and 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FL7   UPWARD"    145 

be  merry,"  found  most  ample  manifestation — 
the  sense  of  human  fellowship  that,  let  what  may 
be  said,  is  just  a  little  stronger  on  and  about 
the  wonderful  December  day  than  at  any  other 
time  of  the  year,  was  evident  everywhere. 
Gazing  like  prisoners  through  prison  bars,  the 
two  men  avidly  drank  in  the  scene,  its  very 
geniality  making  them  the  more  morose. 

And  as  the  engine  passed  on  again  into  the 
desolate  country — between  the  brown  banks 
and  broken  fences — the  men  were  almost 
tempted  to  rub  their  eyes  and  ask  themselves 
if  really  what  they  had  seen  had  not  been  a 
dream,  so  sudden  had  been  its  appearance,  so 
apparently  doubtful  its  reality  even  while  it 
was  before  them,  and  so  absolute  its  eclipse. 

"  Agnes  Holcombe,"  said  Irby,  half  to  drive 
from  his  mind  the  memories  that  tormented 
him,  half  to  lead  Spuiiock  to  talk  further  of 
himself. 

"  Agnes  Holcombe,"  repeated  Spurlock. 
"That,  of  course,  wasn't  her  real  name,  as  I 
soon  found  out." 

"  Not  her  real  name  ?  "   Irby  half  asked 

"  No,"  said  Spurlock.     "  Though  there's  but 
little   to  tell,   I  might  as  well  tell  yon  that 
little.     It  all  happened  out  at  Arapago." 
10 


146     "A3  THE  SPARES  FLY   UPWARD" 

"  Arapago  ?  "  repeated  Irby,  glancing  sharp 
ly  around. 

"  Yes,  Arapago,"  continued  Spurlock.  "  It 
was  one  of  my  respectable  times — when  I  was 
still  struggling.  I  was  clerk  in  one  of  the  big 
freight  depots.  One  night  I  was  sitting  in  that 
park  that  looks  out  over  the  lake  when  I  saw  a 
woman  on  the  next  bench  to  mine.  I  saw  that 
she  was  pretty  and  that  she  was  crying.  The 
two  things  were  too  much  for  me — they  ought 
to  be  for  any  man.  I  made  an  excuse  to  speak 
to  her,  she  answered  me  and  we  had  a  long 
talk.  I  asked  her  where  she  lived,  but  al 
though  she  would  not  tell  me,  she  promised  to 
meet  rne  on  the  night  after  the  next,  at  the 
same  place.  She  kept  her  word,  and  it  was  the 
first  of  many  meetings.  Dan,  I  loved  that 
woman,  and,  what  is  the  strangest  thing,  I 
loved  her  as  I  never  loved  another.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  I  didn't  want  her  to  love  me; 
why,  man,  the  ground  she  walked  on,  it  seemed 
to  me,  was  the  only  thing  that  I  was  fit  to 
touch.  There  are  some  women  who  can  make 
you  feel  like  that,  though,  like  as  not,  they're 
laughing  at  you  all  the  time.  One  night  I  fol 
lowed  her  to  find  out  if  I  could  know  some 
thing  about  her." 


"A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     147 

"Well,"  said  Irby,  impatiently,  and  yet 
hesitatingly. 

"  I  followed  her  to  a  pretty  little  house  just 
where  the  city  begins  to  break  up  and  you  get 
a  little  air  and  space." 

"  Yes,"  said  Irby,  looking  at  his  fireman  with 
a  curious  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"  It  was  in  Canestoga  Street,  number  one 
hundred  and  seventeen — queer  how  you'll  re 
member  those  little  things — and  there  she 
went  in,  with  that  air  you  know  that  one  has 
when  going  into  a  familiar  place." 

"Yes,"  said  Irby,  as  he  leaned  forward  to 
look  at  one  of  the  gauges,  and  then  again  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Spurlock  with  the  same  intensity 
of  gaze. 

"  She  was  mad  enough  when  she  found  out 
what  I'd  done,  but  she  soon  forgave  me.  And 
it  was  there  we  met  when  her  husband  was 
away."  He  paused,  then  added  quickly, 
"  What's  the  matter,  Dan  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Irby  ;  "  go  on." 

"  Yes,  and  when  he  was  there  she'd  come  to 
the  park  sometimes ;  but  I  generally  saw  her 
in  the  garden.  I  learned  all  about  her  from 
the  people  in  the  neighborhood,  but  I  never  let 
her  know  that  I  knew  the  truth,  though  she 


148     "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

must  have  suspected  that  I  did.  I've  seen 
enough  not  to  appear  to  know  any  more  than 
a  woman  wants  that  you  should.  She  was  mar 
ried,  so  they  told  me,  to  a  man  a  good  deal 
older  than  herself,  who,  though  he  was  gener 
ally  well  considered,  was  thought  by  the  neigh 
bors  a  little  too  strict  and  glum  for  her.  I 
imagined  I  saw  how  it  was.  He  was  an  en 
gineer  on  one  of  the  Western  roads,  away  half 
the  time,  and  the  poor  young  thing  was  left 
all  alone.  I  think  he  made  her  pretty  unhappy, 
and  so  the  inevitable  happened,  and  I  happened 
to  be  the  inevitable,  though  in  this  case  the  in 
evitable  wasn't  so  very  much  after  all." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Irby. 

"  Though  neither  of  us  ever  spoke  about  it, 
I  gathered  from  what  I  picked  up  that  it  was 
only  when  her  husband — Shaw,  that  was  the 
engineer's  name — was  away  that  I  could  ap 
pear.  Then,  when  it  was  dark  enough,  I'd  slip 
over  the  white  picket -fence  and  sit  with  her 
in  the  arbor  under  the  grape-vines.  I  never 
kissed  her  but — once " 

Before  Spurlock  had  time  to  do  more  than 
instinctively  raise  his  arm  in  defence,  Irby  was 
upon  him,  and  with  an  iron  wrench  that  he 
had  snatched  from  its  place  had  felled  him 


"AS  TEE  SPARKS  FLT   UPWARD"    149 

with  one  blow  to  the  floor,  where  he  lay,  an  al 
most  shapeless  heap,  on  the  hot,  riveted  iron 
plates. 

What  Irby  consciously  noticed  next  was  that 
the  train  was  swiftly  running  over  the  causeway 
built  across  the  widespreading  marshes  that 
lay  an  hour  and  more  beyond  the  last  stopping- 
place.  It  was  not  that  the  sky  was  clearer  and 
therefore  gave  more  light,  but  there  was  more 
of  it,  stretching  as  it  did  to  the  horizon,  and 
Irby  could  distinctly  see  the  dull,  sullen  waters 
above  which,  on  the  embankment,  the  locomo 
tive  so  swiftly  moved  along;  could  mark  the 
acres  and  acres  of  low-lying  land  partially 
covered  with  rank  grass  and  partially  with  tall, 
tangled,  aquatic  plants.  It  was  a  sad,  desolate 
place  at  any  time,  but  now,  seen  only  by  the 
uncertain  light  of  the  stars — the  wind  had  torn 
the  clouds  from  the  sky — it  was  indeed  forbid 
ding  and  awful. 

In  Irby's  mind  was  an  uneasy  consciousness 
that  something  unusual  had  happened,  what, 
he  half  knew,  yet  hardly  could  have  told. 
With  the  instinct  of  his  calling,  he  glanced  first 
at  all  the  cocks  and  levers  about  him,  then 
looked  cautiously  around.  Yes,  there  it  was, 


150      " A8  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

more  like  some  bundle  of  old  clothes  than  the 
form  of  a  man,  for  Spurlock  had  fallen  face 
down,  with  his  arms  doubled  up  under  him, 
and  there  was  no  pallid  countenance,  no  worn, 
blackened  hand  to  show  what  was  really  there. 
Irby  did  not  start ;  he  had  half-prepared  him 
self  for  what  he  was  to  see,  and  only  gazed  in 
tently,  almost  apathetically,  at  the  object  at 
his  feet.  Then  his  eye  caught  something  that 
needed  attention  in  the  machinery,  and  he, 
with  action  almost  as  automatic  as  that  of  any 
one  of  the  engine's  appliances,  set  it  right. 
The  fires  must  have  burnt  low,  he  thought; 
but  how  could  he  replenish  them  ?  Dulled  as 
his  mind  was,  it  seemed  an  insurmountable 
difficulty  that  Spurlock's  body  lay  on  the  floor. 
How  would  it  be  possible  to  open  the  furnace 
door  ?  how  shovel  in  the  coal  ?  But  gradually 
perception  became  clearer  —  that  the  engine 
should  be  run  all  right  seemed  to  him  more  im 
portant  than  anything  else — and  he  left  the 
shelf -like  seat  on  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
and  picking  up  the  body  carefully,  placed  it  in 
a  corner,  with  the  back  against  the  wall  of  the 
cab  and  the  side  of  the  opposite  bench.  Then 
he  threw  open  the  furnace-door.  With  the 
glare  of  what  seemed  to  him  the  nether  pit, 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"      151 

the  tongues  of  flame,  writhing  and  twisting  in 
the  strong  draft,  leaped  up,  licking  around 
the  iron  edges  of  their  prison-house.  The  whole 
place  was  illuminated  with  the  fierce,  ruddy 
light,  and  the  face  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
struck  down  seemed  to  gain  even  something 
more  than  its  natural  color.  Drawing  back 
the  canvas  screen  he  grasped  Spurlock's  shovel 
and  cast  the  coals  into  the  furnace's  mouth ; 
then  he  carefully  drew  together  the  curtain, 
shut  the  opened  door,  mounted  to  his  seat,  and 
glanced  down  the  straight  road  that  seemed 
almost  to  slip  under  the  engine  and  glide  away. 
Fancies,  rather  than  such  positive  thoughts  as 
it  would  seem  should  be  the  natural  and  un 
avoidable  outcome  of  the  situation,  filled  his 
brain.  First,  there  started  into  quick  vision, 
the  astonishment,  the  horror  of  the  officials, 
when  he  should  ride  into  the  next  station  with 
a  murdered  man  on  the  engine  with  hir^. 
There  seemed  something  so  grotesquely  ludi 
crous  in  the  idea,  that  he  almost  laughed  aloud. 
Then  he  listlessly  thought  of  what  the  newspa 
pers  would  say — of  the  heavy  headlines  and 
sensational  sentences.  People  would  talk  about 
it  the  next  day — Christmas  Day — Christmas  of 
all  days.  The  sense  of  the  awful  inharmony 


152      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY   UPWARD" 

between  what  he  had  done  and  what  the  feel 
ing  of  the  time  enjoined,  brought  him  the  first 
thrill  of  horror  that  he  had  felt.  His  regular 
respiration  was  broken  by  a  quick,  raucous 
gasp,  and  on  his  brow  he  felt  the  chilly  dew  of 
terror. 

Christmas  Eve!  It  seemed  to  Irby  that 
everything  of  any  consequence  to  him  had  hap 
pened  on  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  on  a  Christ 
mas  Eve  that  he  had  been  married  ;  it  was  on 
the  next  Christmas  Eve  that  the  baby  was 
born ;  it  was  only  just  before  Christmas  Eve, 
a  year  past,  that  they — Mabel  and  he — had 
their  final  misunderstanding  and  had  parted  ; 
he  swearing  that  though  she  might  wish  to 
seek  his  forgiveness  she  should  not  have  the 
chance.  So  he  had  gone  to  a  distant  place, 
where,  under  a  new  name — perhaps  even  then 
apprehensive  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  with 
stand  her  pleading  should  she  attempt  to  soften 
his  heart — he  had  sought  new  employment, 
while  she  had  fled  he  knew  not  whither. 

He  had  often  wondered,  sometimes  doubted, 
whether  he  had  not  been  unjust  to  her.  There 
were  even  times  when  he  had  accused  himself 
of  blind  cruelty  to  her,  and  had  felt  impelled, 
then  and  there,  to  seek  her  out  wherever  she 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     153 

might  be,  and  ask  her  forgiveness.  But  he  had 
been  too  deeply  hurt ;  the  wound,  to  one  of  his 
nature,  was  too  grievous  to  permit  any  such 
action,  and  he  had  quickly  fallen  back  into  his 
old  state  of  obduracy  and  inert  despair.  For 
days  before  he  had  finally  spoken  to  her,  he 
had  watched  and  waited,  and  reasoned  and 
argued  until  it  almost  seemed  that  he  had  lost 
all  power  of  continuous  thought,  so  distracted 
had  he  become ;  and  now,  since  they  had  been 
separated,  he  had  weighed  the  evidence  again 
and  again  ;  had  never  ceased  laboriously  to  re 
volve  the  matter  in  his  mind  ;  to  seek  to  com 
prehend  her  motives  and  to  test  his  own.  He 
could  not  have  made  a  mistake.  It  was  true 
that  she  had  never  confessed  anything,  but 
again  she  had  never  denied  anything,  merely 
contenting  herself  with  an  indignant  silence, 
or  with  impetuous  assertion  that  she  dis 
dained  to  defend  herself  against  suspicion, 
adding  that  if  he  did  not  trust  her  he  did 
not  love  her,  and  that  they  had  best  part. 

And  so  he,  unable  to  control  the  fierce  jeal 
ousy,  the  rugged  wrong-side  of  his  strong  love, 
and  she  feigning  or  feeling  the  deep  indig 
nation  of  affronted  womanhood,  had  given  to 
the  wind  the  vows  they  had  both  made,  that 


154      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

they  would  thereafter  cling  to  one  another, 
even  until  the  last  great  parting.  No,  he 
must  have  been  right — there  was  so  much  to 
justify  him.  Though  he  had  imagined  her  so 
different  from  other  women,  was  there  really 
any  reason  why  she  should  be  so  ?  There  was 
her  own  sister — beautiful,  headstrong,  erring 
Cora — and  might  not  Mabel  really  have  been 
— was  it  not  indeed  reasonable  to  believe  that 
she  was  as  vain,  as  frivolous,  as  light  as  the 
other  ?  Was  it  not  highly  probable  that  as  one 
sister  had  been,  so  the  other  would  be  ?  And 
yet  at  first  he  had  felt  that  she  was  of  another 
nature  than  this  wilful  being  who  had  fled  from 
the  tedium  of  a  life  in  which  there  was  only 
peace  and  sufficiency,  to  seek  the  excitement 
and  lavishness  that  she  seemed  to  crave — had 
fled  from  the  small  but  pretty  house,  on  the 
city's  outskirts,  where  Mabel  had  seemed  so 
contented,  and  where  during  the  long,  lustrous 
summer  evenings  he  had  timidly  courted  her  ; 
where,  on  the  brisk,  brilliant  December  night, 
three  years  ago,  he  had  finally  married  her. 

It  was  about  her  sister,  Cora,  that  they  had 
had  their  first  quarrel — he  peremptorily  refus 
ing  ever  to  let  his  wife  see  or  communicate 
with  one  whom  he  had  thought  so  unworthy  of 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     155 

her  love  and  countenance,  and  she,  only  after 
argument  and  contention,  finally  yielding.  It 
had  always  been  disagreeable  to  him  to  think 
of  Cora  as  his  wife's  sister.  It  was  with  real 
relief  that,  in  the  first  year  of  their  marriage, 
he  had  listened  to  Mabel  as  she  told  him  that 
she  had  received  news  of  Cora's  death  in  one  of 
the  hospitals  of  an  Eastern  city,  and  reflected 
that  she,  whose  life  was  so  worthless  to  herself 
and  others,  could  no  longer  come  between  them. 
Yes,  Mabel  had  always  been  light-hearted 
and  pleasure-loving.  But  granting  only  this, 
was  not  that  enough  to  cause  difficulty  in  time  ? 
Was  he — middle-aged,  serious,  and  a  trifle  taci 
turn — the  man  to  satisfy  such  a  woman — pretty, 
with  the  desire,  and  even  the  right,  to  have  her 
beauty  recognized ;  naturally  longing  for  the 
enjoyment  that  youth  demands  as  its  peculiar 
prerogative  ?  Was  it  not  only  natural  that  she 
should  fancy  some  one  nearer  her  own  age, 
some  one  with  a  readier  wit,  and  more  adapt 
able  manner  ?  He  was  as  conscious  of  his  own 
shortcomings  as  he  was  of  his  inability  to  over 
come  them ;  but  he  nevertheless  suffered 
grievously,  and  had  been  continually  on  the 
lookout  for  some  sign  of  disapproval,  of  dislike, 
on  her  part.  It  is  true  it  never  came,  but  he 


156      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

was  always  apprehensive ;  it  was  the  seed-time 
for  suspicion,  and  the  soil  in  which  the  grain 
might  come  to  deadly  fruit  was  morbidly  rich. 
It  was  only  to  be  expected  that  he  should 
hearken  to  what  people  said.  When  he  had 
received  the  first  anonymous  letter  he  had 
sworn  that  he  would  not  read  the  thing  ;  but 
when,  with  trembling  hand  and  quick-beating 
heart,  he  had  first  glanced  along  the  cowardly, 
feigned  writing — as  he  deliberately  read  it 
again,  as  he  had  read  all  that  succeeded  it,  he 
had  in  his  heart  believed  what  was  said.  Had 
she  not  acted  strangely  for  a  long  time,  as  if 
she  were  keeping  something  from  him  ?  All 
seemed  calculated  to  strengthen  him  in  his  ap 
prehensions,  all  to  bear  witness  against  her. 
And  when  he  had  shown  her  the  letters,  with 
their  blackening  tale,  though  she  had  appeared 
indignant,  outraged,  even  then  she  had  denied 
nothing,  and  had  refused  to  defend,  to  excul 
pate  herself.  It  had  been  a  brief  but  violent 
scene,  and  then  they — she  proudly,  and  he 
besottedly  jealous,  and  passionately  inflexible 
— had  separated. 

It  was  a  common  enough  story,  as  he  knew, 
but  in  spite  of  this  knowledge  it  seemed 
strangely  pathetic  to  him.  And  this  had 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     157 

been  the  end  of  the  life  that  had  begun  so 
happily,  although  it  had  not  been  the  end  of 
torturing  thought,  of  continual  questionings,  of 
occasional  self-crimination.  Now,  with  a  sense 
almost  of  relief,  he  reflected  that  the  time  of 
doubt  was  past  for  him.  Since  he  had  heard 
Spurlock's  confession  he  need  torment  himself 
no  more.  He  had  been  right.  Her  fancy  had 
been  taken  by  the  good  looks  and  careless 
grace  of  the  stranger,  and  she  had  forgotten 
his  love,  lost  her  love — if  there  had  really  ever 
been  any — for  him. 

It  did  not  require  any  great  time  for  these 
thoughts  to  arise,  to  eddy  giddily  about,  to 
crowd  one  another  in  Irby's  mind.  And  yet — 
he  was  thinking  more  calmly  and  collectedly 
now — it  was  strange  that  he  should  have  felt 
so  deeply  about  it  all,  at  this  late  day,  as  to 
have  been  moved  to  kill  this  man.  And  then 
he  reflected  how  wonderful  it  was  that  the  poor 
creature  whom  in  pity  he  had  befriended  and 
rescued,  should  have  been  the  man  who  had 
robbed  him  of  his  happiness.  The  injustice — 
what  seemed  to  him  almost  the  ingratitude  of 
it — struck  him  with  sudden  force,  and  he 
glanced  with  quick-kindling  hatred  at  the  mo 
tionless  something  in  the  corner. 


158      "A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

And  all  the  while  the  engine  sped  on,  thun 
dering  over  bridges  and  roaring  through  "  cut 
tings,"  a  terrible,  it  might  almost  seem  in  its 
awful  momentum,  an  unmanageable  force — 
sped  on,  pouring  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke  from 
its  swaying  stack,  and  flinging  into  the  air  my 
riads  of  glowing,  dancing  sparks  that  streamed 
behind  in  a  cometic  trail ! 

Now  another  city  lies  not  far  ahead,  as  Irby 
well  knows.  Shall  he  tell  what  has  happened 
and  give  himself  up?  Uncertain  what  to  do 
he  determines  to  do  nothing.  The  stop  he 
knows  will  be  but  short.  At  so  late  an  hour 
there  will  be  but  few  about ;  none  at  all  who 
will  think  of  mounting  on  the  engine.  The 
cab  is  so  high  from  the  ground  that  no  one 
passing  on  the  platform  of  the  station  can  see 
into  it.  Why  not  go  as  he  had  come,  without 
allowing  a  person  to  know  what  had  occurred  ; 
then,  in  the  long  unbroken  run  to  the  next 
stopping  place,  he  would  have  time  to  reflect — 
to  decide  upon  his  ultimate  course. 

Crouching  over  the  lever,  he  brought  the 
engine  up  to  the  building  that  gave  shelter  to 
the  travellers,  and  stopped  it,  trembling,  before 
the  lighted  windows.  The  sudden  illumina 
tion  disconcerted  him  somewhat  and  he  turned 


"A8  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     159 

to  adjust  the  tattered,  greasy  curtain  more 
carefully.  His  change  of  position  had  brought 
the  body  within  his  gaze,  and  he  looked  at  it 
now  for  the  first  time  coolly  and  curiously. 
Blood  stood  in  almost  inky  black  spots  on  the 
white  face — the  distended  arms  lay  along  the 
floor  in  flaccid,  impotent  immobility.  Had  it 
not  been  cowardly  to  take  the  man  unawares ; 
should  he  not  have  given  Spurlock  a  chance  to 
defend  himself  ?  He  thought  vaguely  that  if 
the  deed  were  to  be  done  over  again  he  would 
prefer  not  to  do  it  in  that  way. 

"  Merry  Christmas ! " 

The  voice  seemed  almost  at  his  elbow,  and 
he  gave  a  great  start.  But  it  was  only  one  of 
the  station  people,  whom  he  knew,  hurrying 
by  on  the  platform  below  him. 

"Merry  Christmas!" 

He  wras  afraid  that  if  he  did  not  answer  the 
man  might  return,  and  so  he  shouted  the 
cheery,  conventional  greeting  after  him  in  a 
voice  that  he  did  not  seem  to  recognize  as  his 
own. 

The  time  the  train  could  remain  at  this 
place  was  nearly  up,  and  he  glanced  at  his 
clock  to  see  if  even  then  he  might  not  set  the 
engine  in  motion.  The  hands  stood  exactly  at 


160      "A3  THE  SPARES  FLY  UPWARD" 

twelve,  folded  together  in  a  manner  that  sug 
gested  palms  closely  pressed  in  prayer ;  and 
now,  as  he  sat  waiting  for  the  moment  when  he 
might  be  off,  the  chimes  rang  out  from  a 
church  near  at  hand.  In  the  clear  night  air 
they  sounded  merrily,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  never  heard  sounds  so  sweet,  so 
holy.  He  knew  what  it  meant ;  they  were  ring 
ing  for  the  midnight  service  of  Christmas. 
Had  he  not  gone  once  with  her,  and  as  the 
memory  came  back  to  him — it  seemed  almost 
brought  to  him  by  the  wind-borne  cadences  of 
the  bells — he  bowed  his  head  on  his  hand  that 
rested  on  the  cold,  hard  handle  of  the  steel 
beam,  and  a  sob  broke  from  him  and  left  him 
trembling  and  afraid.  He  thought  of  the 
momentous  event  in  remembrance  of  which 
the  bells  were  ringing — the  birth  of  the  Child 
that  was  born  into  the  world  to  bring  the  mes 
sage  of  hope  and  of  salvation ;  to  teach  that 
lesson  of  gentleness  and  peace  that  the  world 
had  never  known  before — that  it  has  only  so 
imperfectly  learned.  "  Peace  on  earth  and 
good-will  toward  men."  He  turned  again  and 
glanced  at  the  upward  staring  face  in  the  cor 
ner.  The  contrast  between  word  and  fact  was 
so  terrible,  so  complete,  that  its  realization 


"A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     161 

overcame  him,  and  in  his  sudden  agony  he 
again  sobbed  aloud. 

On  flew  the  train.  The  flat,  open  country 
was  crossed,  and  the  way  now  lay  among  high 
hills  that  soon  would  become  mountains.  Irby 
felt  that  there  was  something  threatening  in 
their  ragged  outline  and  wished  himself  back 
again  in  the  level  land.  Then  he  tried  to  dis 
miss  such  senseless,  such  insane  ideas  from  his 
mind,  and  sought  to  reason,  and  to  resolve,  but 
found  he  could  do  neither.  Was  he  becoming 
mad,  or  had  he  been  mad  all  the  time  ?  It  was  a 
new  thought,  and  he  pondered  over  it  diligently. 

He  seemed  to  hear  a  noise  as  if  some  one 
were  moving,  and  glanced  around.  Spurlock 
stirred  uneasily,  raised  himself  slowly  on  his 
elbow,  then,  in  an  instant,  was  on  his  feet.  It 
was  evident  that  complete  intelligence  had  re 
turned  with  renewed  physical  strength,  his  still 
vigorous  youth  making  sudden  recovery  possi 
ble.  He  threw  himself  instantly  into  a  position 
of  defence,  as  if  his  last  conscious  thought  was 
still  in  his  mind,  or  was  the  first  to  return  to  it. 

"  Dan,"  he  cried,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  Have 
you  gone  mad?  " 

But  Irby  did  not  answer.  The  knowledge 
11 


162      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

that,  after  all,  lie  had  not  killed  his  companion 
filled  him  for  an  instant  with  strange  relief; 
then  the  old,  fierce  hate  returned,  and  he  looked 
at  the  other  threateningly. 

"  What  is  it,  Dan  ?  "  said  Spurlock,  entreat- 
ingly ;  "  can't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

Still  Irby  did  not  speak. 

"  Can't  you  say  something  ? "  continued 
Spurlock. 

"No,"  answered  Irby.  "I'm  not  crazy, 
whatever  you  may  think,  although  perhaps  I 
ought  to  be." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  You  were  telling  me  a  story." 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  remember  there  was — a — woman 
in  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"She,"  said  Irby,  calmly  enough,  "was  my 
wife." 

"It  isn't  true,  Dan;  it  can't  be  true,"  almost 
shrieked  Spurlock,  raising  his  voice  high  above 
the  roar  of  the  train. 

"  It  is  true,"  answered  Irby. 

"  But,  Dan,"  implored  Spurlock,  "  I  never 
knew,  I  never  could  have  suspected.  She  had 
another  name." 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     163 

"  Sliaw  was  my  name  then — is  my  real  name 
now." 

"  But  I  swear  to  you,  swear  to  you  as  I  hope 
for  salvation  on  the  day  of  judgment,  that  there 
was  nothing." 

"  I  know,"  said  Irby,  slowly,  "  and  I  believe 
you.  But  you  said  that  she  told  you  that  she 
loved  you.  You  confessed  that  yourself,  and 
isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  I  started  to  do,"  answered  Irby. 

"  No,  Dan,"  cried  Spurlock,  "  don't  say  that, 
don't  do  that.  If  I've  done  you  a  wrong,  I 
didn't  mean  it,  and " 

"I  don't  pretend,"  answered  Irby,  sullenly, 
"  that  I  can  see  the  thing  clear.  I  only  know 
what  I  have  felt,  and  what  I  feel.  There  may 
not  be  any  justice  in  it,  but  justice  is  for  them 
who  can  think,  and  I  can't.  I  only  know  that 
you're  the  man  that  came  between  us,  that  I 
tried  to  find  then,  and  that  I've  found  at 
last." 

"  And  you're  going  to  kill  me  ?  "  asked  Spur- 
lock,  now,  with  entire  calmness ;  "  is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Irby. 

"  Then  I  tell  you   what   it   is,"   continued 


164:      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

Spurlock,  with  perfect  coolness,  though  with  a 
certain  quickness  of  utterance  ;  "I  haven't  done 
anything  to  you  knowingly,  and  if  you  try 
that  again  I'm  going  to  defend  myself.  You 
know  I'm  not  afraid,  and  that  I'll  make  a  good 
fight." 

"All  the  better,"  said  Irby,  grimly;  "I'll 
feel  it  the  less  after  it  is  over." 

"But  look  here,"  Spurlock  went  on;  "do 
you  propose  that  we  settle  this  here,  and  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Irby. 

"  Then  I'd  like  to  say  something,"  said  Spur 
lock,  seating  himself,  but  watching  his  com 
panion  carefully.  "We're  both  strong  men. 
I'm  as  likely  to  do  you  an  injury  as  you  me. 
We  might  both  meet  with  an  accident,  and 
then  what  would  become  of  the  train  ?  " 

Irby  did  not  answer.  After  what  had 
passed,  this  calm  parleying  about  life  and  death 
did  not  strike  him  as  in  the  least  unnatural. 
Whether  or  not  he  should  kill  Spurlock  then 
and  there,  or  wait  until  later,  seemed  to  him 
a  matter  that  might  be  talked  over  quite 
calmly  and  collectedly. 

"  It's  our  duty,"  said  Spurlock,  "  to  look  out 
for  the  train,  whatever  we  may  feel  ourselves." 

Irby  thought  of  the  scores  of  sleeping  pas- 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     165 

sengers  and  hesitated.  What  Spurlock  said 
was  true.  A  struggle  between  them  in  such 
confined  quarters  would  indeed  be  something 
determined  and  dangerous,  and  though  he  had 
no  doubt  as  to  its  outcome,  still  Spurlock 
could  very  easily  do  him  an  injury  that  would 
incapacitate  him. 

"  I  think  you're  right,"  he  answered,  briefly, 
and  then  he  again  sat  down,  for  he  had  risen 
when  he  had  first  spoken.  "  There's  more  coal 
needed,  put  it  on." 

Spurlock  threw  open  the  furnace-door,  again 
allowing  the  ruddy  glow  to  play  over  the  place ; 
cast  half  a  dozen  shovelfuls  of  coal  on  the  em 
bers  fanned  by  the  draft  to  almost  a  white  heat, 
then  closed  the  heavy  iron  shutter,  and  took 
his  place  opposite  Irby. 

Mile  on  mile  they  rode  in  silence,  hardly  look 
ing  at  each  other.  The  lights  were  all  out  now 
in  the  houses  along  the  road ;  the  landscape 
unbroken  by  a  gleam  anywhere.  It  was  like 
travelling  through  some  lately  deserted  land. 

"  Dan,"  said  Spurlock,  at  length,  "  I  don't 
speak  because  I  want  you  to  let  up  on  me,  but 
you  know  you're  the  last  man  in  the  world  I'd 
harm." 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  Irby,  shortly. 


166      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

Then  again  there  was  silence,  lasting  for 
minutes  and  miles. 

""  If  there's  no  way  out  of  this,"  said  Spur- 
lock,  once  more  speaking,  "I'd  like,  Dan,  to 
understand  it  a  little  better.  I  want  to  know 
what  I've  done  to  you." 

Should  he  answer  him,  Irby  thought.  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  give  expression  to  the 
least  part  of  what  he  had  known  and  suffered, 
but  the  instinct  that  makes  even  the  bravest 
sometimes  cry  out  when  they  are  hurt,  forbade 
silence. 

"  It  was  you  who  spoiled  the  only  happiness 
that  I  ever  had,"  he  said,  relentlessly  ;  "it  was 
you  who  destroyed  my  confidence  in  her." 

It  appeared  incomprehensible  that  he  could 
sit  there  so  calmly  discussing  his  own  misery 
with  the  man  who  had  been  the  cause  of  it ; 
tossing  reasons  back  and  across,  as  if  it  were 
the  most  ordinary  subject.  But  so  much  had 
happened  to  him  that  he  had  not  thought  pos 
sible  that  the  position  only  caused  him  mo 
mentary  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  Spurlock.  "  But  I  didn't  know 
— I  couldn't  look  ahead." 

"  But  you  must  have  understood  that  harm 
was 'bound  to  come  somewhere — to  some  one." 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY   UPWARD"      167 

"A  man  doesn't  stop  to  think,"  answered 
Spurlock,  "  at  such  a  time." 

"  Some  one  was  bound  to  suffer,"  said  Irby. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Spurlock,  bitterly,  "I 
think  we've  all  done  that — all." 

"  I  thought  it  was  bad  enough  when  I  lost 
the  child,"  continued  Irby,  disregarding  the 
other's  speech ;  "  but  to  lose  her !  A  man 
doesn't  marry  a  woman  unless  he  has  trust  in 
her,  and  to  such  as  I,  who  have  never  had  a 
chance  to  believe  much  of  anything,  it's  about 
the  only  faith  that's  given  to  them.  When 
you  take  away  such  belief  you're  robbing  them 
of  everything  in  this  world  and  the  next,  for 
some  woman's  all  the  religion  many  a  man's 
got.  She  can  make  him  believe  that  some 
thing's  right,  and  that  right's  something,  and 
when  you  find  out  that  she  has  been  deceiving 
you,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  any 
where.  She's  not  only  been  a  worse  woman,  but, 
Spurlock,  I've  been  a  worse  man  since  then." 

His  first  hesitancy  was  past  now,  and  he 
was  talking  unconstrainedly,  almost  argumen- 
tatively. 

"I  suppose,  Dan,"  Spurlock  hastened  to 
say,  "  it's  only  natural  that  you  should  feel 
the  way  you  do  ;  I  suppose  I'd  do  the  same  in 


168      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

your  place  ;  but  let's  try  and  be  reasonable.  I 
grant  that  you've  got  grounds  of  complaint 
against  me,  and  I'm  willing  to  give  you  the 
satisfaction  you  want.  That's  only  square. 
But,  Dan,  we've  been  friends  so  long,  mates  on 
the  engine  for  some  considerable  time  now, 
and  it  isn't  as  if  I'd  been  a  stranger,  and  you'd 
learned  this  thing." 

"  No,"  assented  Irby. 

"If  I  should  give  you  revenge,  I  owe  you 
gratitude,  and  whatever  comes,  I'm  not  going 
to  forget  that." 

Another  city  was  near,  as  they  both  well 
knew,  a  city  where  a  longer  stay  would  be 
made  than  at  any  place  since  they  had  started 
on  the  long  ride. 

"  In  ten  minutes  we'll  be  in  the  depot,"  said 
Spurlock ;  "  what's  to  happen  then  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  answered  Irby,  after  a  moment's 
consideration. 

"  We'll  take  the  train  through  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we'll  take  the  train  through,"  answered 
Irby. 


The  track,  after  passing  the  station,  ran  di 
rectly  over  a  great  bridge  that  spanned  a  broad 


"A3  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"     169 

river,  and  the  train,  with  carefully  diminished 
speed,  almost  crawled  along,  high  over  the 
rushing  stream  that  beat  with  such  strong 
current  against  the  massive  piers.  It  was  still 
perfectly  dark,  and  the  two  men  felt  rather 
than  saw  the  black  waters  rolling  beneath 
them.  Slowly,  it  would  seem  for  the  first  time 
almost  timidly,  the  engine  rolled  on,  but  soon 
the  measured  clang — the  almost  rhythmic  re 
verberation  of  the  iron  girders,  as  the  wheels 
ground  over  them  —  suddenly  ceased ;  was 
succeeded  by  a  more  confused  and  unbroken 
din,  and  wheeling  around  a  bend  in  the  shore, 
the  locomotive  took  up  a  swifter  pace,  and  soon 
the  lights  glittering  along  the  wharves,  and  the 
gas-lamps  shining  in  rows  up  and  down  the 
steep  streets,  were  lost  from  sight. 

It  was  a  straight  "  run  in  "  now  for  the  me 
tropolis,  unbroken  by  another  halt. 

For  a  time  the  landscape  was  obscured  by 
the  flying  flakes,  for  the  train  had  run  into 
a  snow  -  squall  and  the  air  was  full  of  the 
whirling,  downy  particles.  Finally  the  storm 
passed,  or  the  train  passed  it,  and  as  the  engine 
tore  on,  the  two  men  saw  that  the  ground  be 
side  the  track,  lit  by  the  dancing  light  of  the 
cab  windows,  was  unbrokenly  white. 


170      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

The  engine  frequently  raced  by  small  way 
stations,  for  the  country  along  the  river  was 
more  thickly  settled  than  any  through  which 
it  had  passed  ;  but  they  were  all  dark,  or  with 
only  a  signal-light  at  some  switch,  and  so  the 
time  passed,  the  train  grinding  swiftly  on.  At 
length,  at  one  place  larger  than  the  rest,  there 
shot  up  into  the  darkness  strange,  lambent 
flames  that  caught  and  held,  though  it  was  no 
strange  sight  to  them,  the  gaze  of  both  the 
men.  Nearer,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  they  rose 
from  the  great  chimneys  of  an  iron  mill  that, 
like  huge  stationary  torches,  lit  up  all  around. 
Of  vivid  green  when  they  sprang  from  the 
chimney's  mouths  they  twisted  away  in  strange 
orange  convolutions,  fantastic  and  fascinating. 
Now  the  windows  of  the  wide-spreading  build 
ings,  row  after  row,  came  into  view  ;  and  now, 
through  an  opening,  could  be  seen  the  glowing 
interior,  with  glimpses  of  dark,  diabolic  forms 
and  of  brilliant  masses  of  heated  metal  that 
either  flowed  in  slow,  fiery  stream,  or  beneath 
the  blows  of  ponderous  hammers  cast  off  be 
wildering  showers  of  sparks.  But,  like  all 
else,  this  was  speedily  left  behind. 

"  Dan,"  said  Spurlock,  finally,  "  there's  one 
thing  I  wish  you'd  do." 


"A3   THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD"      171 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Irby. 

"  Shake  hands  with  me  for  the  time  that's 
past — when  we  didn't  know." 

Irby  hesitated  a  moment,  then  held  out  his 
hand  to  his  companion  ;  Spurlock  seized  and 
shook  it  silently. 

"  We'll  be  in  the  city  in  a  little  more  than  an 
hour,  now,"  continued  Spurlock,  "and  I  thought 
we'd  better  settle  up  everything  and  then  start 
fresh." 

Irby  nodded. 

"  They  gave  me  a  letter  for  you  just  as  we 
were  leaving,  that  had  been  waiting  for  you  at 
the  office,"  Spurlock  went  on;  "but  the  hur 
ry  of  starting  drove  it  out  of  my  head,  and," 
Spurlock  smiled  grimly,  '-'you  knocked  it 
out." 

He  drew  a  letter  from  his  coat  and  handed 
it  to  Irby. 

The  day  had  just  broken  and  the  first  tinges 
of  anything  like  color  appeared  in  the  sky.  It 
was  still  dark,  but  the  shape  of  the  great,  swell 
ing  headlands  across  the  broad  river  that  flowed 
along  unfrozen,  and  with  swollen  flood,  could 
now,  with  difficulty,  be  distinguished.  It  was 
light  enough,  however,  for  Irby  to  read  the  di 
rection  on  the  envelope,  and  as  he  did  so  his 


172      " A8  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

face,  already  so  pale,  became  a  duller  white  and 
he  slightly  trembled. 

Then  he  hastily  tore  open  the  letter,  and 
read  in  the  dim  but  strengthening  light : 

"DAN,  DEAK  :  I  do  not  know  why  I  write  to 
you  at  this  time  unless  it  is  for  the  very  reason 
that  it  is  this  time.  The  day  that  is  so  near, 
is  so  closely  connected  with  so  much  that  was 
most  important  to  me,  and  must  be  so  to  you 
—that  is,  if  you  ever  think  of  me  and  the  past 
at  all — that  I  have  dared  to  do  it.  I  know 
that  you  have  done  all  in  your  power  to  make 
it  impossible  for  me  to  reach  you — all  useless 
ly — for  even  if  I  could  I  would  not  have  done 
so.  I  was  very  proud,  and  you  hurt  me  very 
much.  I  have  changed,  and  that  has  made  me 
think  that  you  may  have  changed  too,  and  that 
perhaps  all  may  be  different.  We  have  made 
a  mistake,  Dan,  I  as  well  as  you,  and  now  I 
know  it.  I  should  not  have  been  so  resentful 
of  your  suspicions ;  you  should  not  have  been 
so  angered  by  my  resentment.  You  were  older 
than  I,  and  you  should  have  been  more  patient. 
But  I  am  not  writing  these  lines  to  show  you 
where  you  have  failed,  but  rather  to  acknowl 
edge  my  own  errors.  For,  Dan,  I  did  you  a 


"AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD''     173 

wrong,  though  not  in  the  way  you  accused  me 
of  doing  it.  I  did  deceive  you,  but  it  was  not 
in  the  way  you  thought.  I  deceived  .you  once, 
but  even  then  I  did  not  tell  you  a  lie.  I  only 
let  you  go  on  thinking  something  that  was  not 
true.  Cora  died  last  night,  here,  with  me  by 
her  bedside.  It  was  not  true,  the  news  that 
came  to  us  from  that  Eastern  hospital ;  she 
was  very  ill,  but  she  got  well,  and  one  day, 
more  than  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  she  came  to 
me,  when  we  were  living  in  Arapago,  and 
begged  me  to  be  kind  to  her.  I  remembered 
what  you  had  told  me — recollect  that  you  are 
a  stern  man — sometimes  almost  hard  —  that 
you  have  been  hard  even  with  me,  though 
you  never  meant  it  —  and  I  was  afraid  if  I 
let  you  know,  that  you  would  not  allow  me 
to  see  her.  And  poor  Cora,  if  anyone  needed 
help  in  this  world,  such  help  as  sympathy 
alone  can  give,  it  was  she.  She  was  never 
really  bad,  only  weak — fearfully,  fatally  weak 
— and  though  God  knows  that  I  needed 
strength — that  was  one  of  the  reasons  I  loved 
you,  Dan,  you  made  me  feel  so  secure  of  my 
self — I  could  aid  her.  Under  the  name  of 
Agnes  Holcombe,  the  name  she  had  taken 
when  she  left  her  home,  she  lived  in  the  city, 


174      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

supporting  herself  with  some  little  assistance 
from  me.  She  could  only  come  to  the  house — 
I  could  only  see  her — when  you  were  away. 
Perhaps  you  will  understand  now  what  it  was 
I  was  keeping  from  you.  I  felt  that  I  must 
see  her  if  she  was  to  be  saved.  I  was  the  only 
influence  for  good  that  there  was  near  her — I 
alone  had  power  to  control  her,  and  I  did  see 
her  and  kept  the  knowledge  of  it  from  you. 
There  was  a  young  man  who  was  in  love  with 
her — I  did  not  know  that  for  some  time — she 
did  not  tell  me,  and  though  I  did  what  I  could, 
she  insisted  upon  seeing  him,  slipping  out  to 
meet  him,  even  in  the  garden  beside  the  house. 
Poor  girl,  it  seemed  as  if  she  craved  love  more 
than  most  of  us,  and  that  it  was  her  very  need 
for  affection  that  always  brought  her  trouble. 

"  I  did  not  think  that  I  would  ever  try  to 
justify  myself.  At  the  time  of  our  trouble  I 
felt  too  deeply  your  unworthy  doubts  ;  the 
very  fact  that  I  loved  you  so  much  made  the 
wound  deeper,  and  I  imagined  then  that  I 
never  could  forget.  But  time  does  so  much, 
and  as  the  day  has  once  more  come  around 
that  has  meant  so  much  to  us — is  so  nearly 
here,  I  have  seen  things  differently,  and  I 
have  wanted  you  to  hear  the  truth.  I  do  not 


"A8  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWAfiD  "      175 

know  what  effect  it  will  have  upon  you,  but  at 
least  there  will  no  longer  be  any  misunder 
standing,  and  whatever  the  future  may  be  for 
us,  it  will  not  be  the  result  of  a  mistake. 

"  I  am — no,  I  have  some  pride  left  and  I  will 
not  tell  you  where  I  am — if  you  really  wish 
to  see  me,  you  can  find  me.  But,  Dan,  if  you 
are  coming,  do  not  wait  long.  I  cannot  bear 
suspense.  If  you  are  coming,  come  at  once, 
and  make  this  for  me  what  I  could  not  expect, 
and  perhaps  do  not  deserve,  indeed  a  merry 
Christmas  and  a  happy  New  Year. 

"  MABEL." 

As  Irby  finished  reading  the  letter  the  sun 
started  up  from  behind  a  not  distant  hill  and 
flung  its  light  full  into  the  engine  window; 
then  its  brilliant  rays  spread  across  the  small 
sparkling  waves  of  the  grandly  rolling  river 
and  fell  on  the  opposite  shore,  turning  the 
snow-covered  hills  a  warm  and  delicate  pink. 
The  smoke,  rising  from  the  many  chimneys  of 
a  village  through  which  the  train  dashed, 
mounted  slowly  and  almost  in  unswerving 
lines  in  the  still  air,  while  the  unshuttered 
windows  of  the  houses  cast  back  the  new  ra 
diance  of  the  morning,  flash  on  flash.  It 


176      "AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD" 

seemed  a  new  world,  and  to  Irby  it  was  one. 
Silently  lie  handed  the  paper  he  had  just  read 
to  Spurlock,  who  took  it  wonderingly,  and 
again  his  head  sank  upon  his  left  hand,  which 
hardly  had  left  the  bar  that  controlled  the  on- 
rushing  engine. 


A  MATTER  OF   FACT 


A  MATTER  OF   FACT 

"  All  !  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt." 

—  The  Two  Voices. 

THE  cool,  dim  library  was  very  pleasant 
on  this  prematurely  warm  and  glowing 
morning.      There,  the  light  seemed  but 
to  give  tone  to  a  tissue  of  shadows ;  the  atmos 
phere  was  velvety. 

It  was  only  May,  and  yet  a  day  of  midsum 
mer.  Through  the  closed  blinds,  lapsed,  at 
times,  slow,  subdued  puffs  of  air,  soft  with  the 
dull,  caressing  warmth  of  July.  The  street  be 
low — the  library  was  in  the  second  story  of  the 
big,  massive  house — was  overlaid  with  a  glare 
of  metallic  light.  The  nimble — the  mumble 
of  the  carriages  and  carts  as  they  rolled  along 
the  pavement  of  this  the  most  aristocratic  part 
of  the  city's  Fifth  and  the  world's  first  Avenue ; 
the  occasional  cries  of  the  small  merchants  of 


ISO  A  NATTER  OF  FACT 

the  sidewalk ;  the  drone  of  a  hand-organ,  in 
which  seemed  drowsily  to  linger  something  of 
the  lethargy  of  winter — one  of  those  hand-or 
gans  that  in  our  cities,  as  certainly  as  the  dan 
delions,  herald  the  approach  of  spring — these, 
and  a  hundred  sounds  in  mingled  indistinct 
ness,  fell,  with  slightly  accented  monotony, 
upon  the  ear. 

Clearly  it  was  time  to  think  of  leaving  town. 
The  crocuses  had  been  out  some  time ;  the 
"smells"  would  be  soon  in  insurrection. 
Geoffrey  Biddulph  had  begun  to  feel  the  rising 
pulse  of  such  slight  impatience  as  was  peculiar 
to  him — impatience  more  for  change,  after  all, 
than  for  other  circumstances.  Of  course,  he 
decided,  as  he  sat  in  his  great  arm-chair,  he 
had  gathered  material  enough  to  enable  him  to 
finish  his  monograph,  "  Beaumarchais  and  the 
American  Revolution."  Philbrook,  his  private 
secretary,  who  had  filled  volumes  with  facts  and 
gossip,  would  of  course  go  with  him — and  the 
sea-air  of  Newport  would  be  far  more  inspirit 
ing  than  the  breezes  that  wander  on  Murray 
Hill.  He  would  be  off  at  once.  Eleanor,  with 
her  husband,  could  follow  at  her  leisure. 

Biddulph  hardly  had  the  appearance  of  an 
old  man.  His  perfect  dress  modulated  every- 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  181 

thing  from  the  severity  of  age  into  aspects 
more  belonging  to  middle  life.  His  hair  was 
but  slightly  gray.  The  lines  in  his  face  were 
but  few  and  fine.  His  eyes  were  bright.  The 
afternoon  glow  still  lit  the  dull  ashiness  'of 
closing  day  in  his  complexion.  Was  the  in 
valid's  air  a  thing  of  mere  languid  habitude 
or  was  it  real  ?  "Whatever  it  was,  however,  he 
had  lived  for  years  in  the  full  luxury  of  an 
invalid's  enjoyment  in  the  study  of  his  own 
sensations ;  with  the  invalid's  defence  against 
intrusion ;  with  the  invalid's  immunity  which 
enabled  him  to  make  his  life  wholly  his  own. 

An  elderly  man,  consciously,  almost  con 
scientiously  deferential,  noiselessly  entered  the 
room. 

"  Mrs.  Armroyd,  sir  " — there  was  the  preface 
of  an  introductory,  a  slightly  deprecatory  cough 
— "has  sent  to  inquire  if  you  could  see  her  this 
morning." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Biddulph,  with  calm  gra- 
ciousness,  "  at  any  time — you  may  say  at  any 
time." 

The  servant  disappeared.  In  his  manner 
he  could  have  taught  a  ghost  repose  ;  in  his 
action,  ease. 

Biddulph   sighed   impatiently.      One   hand, 


182  A  MATTER  OP  PACT 

smooth,  delicate,  lay  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
He  picked  up  the  book  open  upon  his  knee, 
glanced  at  a  line  or  two,  and  laid  it  down. 
"  Armroyd,"  he  repeated  slowly,  as  if  studying 
something  latent  in  the  two  syllables.  Even 
the  strenuous  name  had  never  pleased  him. 
To  his  delicate  ear,  it  had  always  seemed  too 
resonant,  too  clangorous,  too  suggestive  of 
"  self-help  "  and  powerful  machinery — things 
for  which  he  certainly  could  not  be  expected  to 
care.  And  that  Eleanor,  his  only  child,  with 
all  her  possibilities  ;  with  the  Biddulph  name 
as  an  inheritance,  and  a  great  fortune  in  ex 
pectancy,  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  this 
man,  and  afterward,  with  a  firmness  which  he 
never  had  suspected  in  her,  should  have  in 
sisted  upon  marrying  him — these  were  psycho 
logical  mysteries  too  difficult  for  him  to  mas 
ter.  But  she  had  never  been  a  perfect  Bid 
dulph.  She  was  small  in  stature,  dark,  gentle, 
timid,  while  the  most  of  the  race  had  been  tall, 
light,  confident,  perhaps  a  trifle  too  assertive. 
She  might  be  the  heiress  of  the  Biddulph  mill 
ions  ;  she  certainly  had  inherited  none  of  the 
Biddulph  beauty.  Hers  was  merely  an  elusive 
prettiness — a  prettiness,  however,  singularly 
significant  arid  peculiarly  personal. 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  183 

The  door  opened  and  Eleanor  Armroyd — 
she  looked  like  a  young  girl — came  slowly, 
almost  shyly,  into  the  room.  She  was  very 
slight ;  her  cheeks  were  tinged  with  the  warm 
blood  of  youth ;  her  eyes  were  clear  and 
bright;  her  soft,  dark  hair  was  gathered  in  a 
lustrous  knot  at  her  neck.  Dressed  with  the 
rare  perfection  of  a  woman  who  knows  herself 
not  beautiful,  but  who,  with  faultless  taste  and 
all  means  at  her  command,  strives  to  make  the 
most  of  herself,  she  was  a  dainty  vision  in  the 
rich,  sombre  apartment. 

"  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Eleanor,"  said 
Biddulph,  "  very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  see 
me." 

"  But,  papa,"  she  said,  in  slightly  reproving 
tone,  "  you  know  that  I  come  every  day — every 
day  for  a  talk  with  you." 

"  That  is  what  I  mean ;  it  is  kind  of  you  to 
come  every  day.  You  bring  the  outside  world 
to  me,  and  now  that  I  cannot  go  to  the  outside 
world  I  find  I  cannot  get  on  without  it.  I  al 
ways  did  take  a  not  unworthy  interest  in  my 
kind." 

"  But  I  see  very  few  people — you  know  I 
am  not  at  all  a  gay  person  myself." 

"  You  can  tell  me  something,  and  I  like  gos- 


184  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

sip.  My  dear,  no  man  is  so  profound  that  he 
can  afford  altogether  to  despise  it.  The  gossip 
of  yesterday  is  often  the  history  of  to-morrow. 
Really  a  great  part  of  history  has  been  at  some 
time  only  gossip.  What  was  once  the  idle  talk 
of  the  agora  or  of  the  forum,  is  our  history  to 
day,  as  the  chatter  of  our  club  smoking-rooms 
will  be  history  for  those  who  come  after  us. 
Do  not  let  us  despise  a  rumor  that  posterity 
may  respect.  It  is  not  courteous  to  our  de 
scendants." 

His  light,  facile,  satirical  laugh  followed  as 
he  looked  fondly  across  the  large,  book-be 
strewn  library  table  at  his  daughter. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  went  on,  "  how  many  of 
them  really  remember  me — how  many  will  be 
surprised  to  find,  when  the  newspapers  an 
nounce  my  death — there  must  be  a  column  at 
least — that  I  only  died  the  day  before." 

Eleanor  stepped  to  her  father's  chair  and 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  it,  her  big 
brown  eyes — eyes  of  the  sort  in  which  it  seems 
tears  are  ever  ready  to  start — dimmed  and 
suffused. 

"  Please,"  she  implored ;  "  please." 

"I  don't  grieve,"  said  Biddulph,  kindly, 
"  and  why  should  you  ?  I  have  had  as  much 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  185 

out  of  life  as  I  deserve — more  than  many  men 
more  deserving ;  and  if  I  must  finally  be  re 
solved  into  my  original  elements — I  forget 
what  they  exactly  are — mostly,  I  believe,  phos 
phate  of  something  and  water — that  which 
happens  to  me  has  happened  to  others  who 
had  more  to  give  up  than  I." 

"  And  don't  you  really  believe  that  there  is 
anything  else  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  looking  fondly 
up.  "  Do  you  really  think  that  this  is  the 
end?" 

"  Nellie,"  said  Biddulph,  kindly,  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  head,  "  why  think  of  these 
things?  You  are  young,  with  a  long,  happy 
life  before  you." 

"  But,"  cried  Eleanor,  "if  it  is  so — if  there 
is  nothing  more — if  we  are  never  to  meet  each 
other  again — it  is  awful." 

"  Why  is  it  awful  ?  "  said  Biddulph,  smooth 
ing  her  hair.  "If  we  are  sure  that  it  is  so, 
should  it  not  make  us  care  more  for  each  other 
while  we  are  here?  should  it  not  prevent  us 
from  weakening  what  we  have  here  in  hope  of 
a  remote  future  ?  No,  my  dear,  the  vague 
dreams  of  unestablished  faith  must  be  given 
up.  As  that  great  thinker,  August  Comte,  has 
explained  beyond  question,  in  his  doctrine  of 


186  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

1  The  Three  Stages,'  we  have  advanced  beyond 
such  delusions  and  should  know  that  what  we 
know  is  all." 

"But,"  said  Eleanor,  almost  shivering,  "it 
makes  all  so  lonely,  so  barren.  I  had  rather 
believe,  even  if  belief  should  be  wrong." 

"What  real  good,"  continued  Biddulph, 
"can  ever  come  of  error?  What  facts  can 
justify  such  vague  belief  ?  And,  Nellie,  there 
is  nothing,  nothing  but  facts,  that  we  can 
trust ;  nothing  but  facts  that  can  convince  the 
modern  mind.  Do  we  believe  anything  here 
on  mere  conjecture ;  and  can  we  build  a  heaven, 
an  eternity  of  life,  upon  such  foundation  ? 
Who  would  ask  me  to  believe  that  there  is 
something — some  condition  of  things  most  im 
portant  to  me — which  facts  do  not  prove  and 
of  which  I  am  ignorant  ?  And  is  it  not  even 
more  absurd  to  ask  me  to  believe  that  there 
is  something  beyond  this  life  which  neither 
sense  nor  reason  recognizes  ?  " 

"  And  mamma,"  murmured  Eleanor,  bowing 
her  head,  "and  the  baby?  " 

Biddulph  rose  impatiently  and  now  tottered 
with  slow,  vacillating  steps  toward  the  great 
carved  mantel,  against  which  he  leaned  heavily. 
Invalid  or  not,  there  was  now  no  affectation, 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  187 

no  mere  mannerism  in  look,  or  gesture,  or  ac 
tion. 

"  Nellie,"  he  said,  sharply,  "  you  must  not 
indulge  in  such  morbid  thoughts.  They  are 
not  worthy  of  you  as  my  daughter.  In  your 
youth  I  so  taught  you  that  now,  when  you  are 
a  woman,  you  should  not  be  startled  when  you 
meet  truth  face  to  face — when  facts  which  can 
not  be  gainsaid  are  brought  to  your  notice." 

Eleanor  had  not  risen,  but,  with  her  head 
bowed  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair,  wept  si 
lently. 

"  Father,"  she  sobbed,  "  when  I  was  a  child 
I  believed  all  that  you  told  me.  Then  mamma 
died — then  my  baby.  I  do  not  believe  that 
my  mother  lived  only  to  pass  utterly  away.  I 
do  not  believe  that  I  bore  my  child  only  that 
she  should  wholly  perish.  I  am  an  ignorant 
girl ;  but  I  have  no  need  of  reason.  I  know 
and  I  believe." 

"I  think,  Nellie,"  said  Biddulph,  slowly, 
"  that  I  understand  you  less  and  less  every 
day.  Really  it  is  very  perplexing — and  annoy- 
ing." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  papa,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I 
would  be  glad  to  be  what  you  want  me  to  be ; 
I  would  have  liked  to  have  done  what  you 


188  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

wanted  me  to  do.  But  it  lias  been  impossible. 
I  think  I  was  nearly  everything — did  nearly 
everything  that  you  desired  —  until  I  met 
Stephen." 

"  I  know — I  know,"  he  said,  a  little  petu 
lantly.  "  You  seemed  bewitched — -tradition, 
training,  all  seemed  to  go  for  nothing." 

"  I  loved  him,"  said  Eleanor,  simply,  looking 
at  Biddulph  with  something  in  her  air  which, 
if  not  defiance,  was  more  than  mere  asser 
tion. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Biddulph,  a  little  impa 
tiently.  "  You  loved  him  ;  and  in  saying  that 
you  think  you  offer  an  explanation.  But  who 
will  explain  love  ?  Your  explanation  does  not 
explain.  You  answer  a  riddle  with  an  enigma 
— substitute  a  mystery  for  a  puzzle.  You  for 
got  yourself  and  your  position.  The  strongest 
of  all  influences,  habit  and  association,  were  as 
nothing.  You  did  what  I  did  not  desire,  be 
cause  one  day  you  met  a  certain  man.  With 
the  fortune  you  will  have,  with  your  name, 
there  were  many  whom  the  world,  as  well  as  I, 
considered  much  more  eligible — who  would 
have  been  glad  to  marry  you,  who  wished  to 
marry  you,  but  you  would  not  look  at  them  or 
listen  to  them." 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  189 

"  He  loved  me,"  answered  Eleanor. 

"Loved  you!"  exclaimed  Biddulph,  with 
rising  impatience.  "How  do  you  know  that 
he  loved  you  more  than  any  of  the  others  ? 
He  had  more  to  gain  than  they,  and  yet  you 
believed  him,  and  thought  all  the  others  for 
tune-hunters." 

"  You  cannot  tell  how  you  know  those  things 
— you  feel  them." 

"  Preposterous !  "  exclaimed  Biddulph,  al 
most  scornfully.  "He  was  a  good-looking 
fellow  and  he  took  your  fancy,  as  the  fancy  of 
many  another  rich  girl  has  been  taken  by  a 
handsome  face,  a  manly  air,  a  ready  tongue, 
and  a  resolute  spirit.  Don't  you  suppose  he 
thought  of  your  money  exactly  as  did  the 
rest?" 

"  I — do  you  want  to  make  me  doubt  him  ?  " 
moaned  Eleanor.  "  I  wanted  so  to  think  he 
cared  for  me,  that  I  could  not  help  doing  what 
I  did.  And  now,  if  I  thought  he  only  married 
me  because  he  thought  I  would  be  rich,  I 
should  die." 

"  You  were  not  a  reigning  beauty,  nor  one  to 
arrest  attention  in  the  world,"  continued  Bid 
dulph,  "  but  it  may  not  have  been  altogether 
for  the  '  beaux  yeux  de  ma  cassette.'  Let  us 


190  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

hope  so.  I  think  you  never  sufficiently  real 
ized  your  position,  or  else  you  never  cared 
enough  about  it.  Still,  I  never  expected  all  to 
end  as  it  did." 

"  But  we  have  been  so  happy." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Biddulph,  "  that  the 
result  has  been  better  than  I  expected.  I 
really  cannot  find  fault  with  the  man  you  in 
sisted  upon  having  for  a  husband.  Stephen 
Armroyd  has  done  wonderfully  well  consider 
ing  who  and  what  he  was — a  man  from  the 
masses,  self-made  and  self-educated." 

"  But  he  had  made  himself  even  then,"  said 
Eleanor,  proudly.  "  He  needed  nobody's  mon 
ey,  nobody's  aid  to  accomplish  that." 

"  He  had,"  conceded  Biddulph,  "  attained  a 
very  respectable  position.  But  what  I  desired 
for  you  was  a  man  of  brilliant  rank,  rich,  your 
equal." 

"  My  equal !  "  exclaimed  Eleanor,  scornfully. 
"  As  if  Stephen — 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Biddulph,  "  I  know — 
we've  discussed  all  this  before — did  it  thor 
oughly  when  you  were  about  to  be  married. 
There  is  no  need  to  go  over  it  again.  I  have 
quite  often  listened  to  the  enumeration  of  Arm- 
royd's  qualities — intelligent,  capable,  honest, 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  191 

of  excellent  presence  and  presentable  manner 
—altogether  a  very  admirable  person." 
"  If  you  could  only  do  him  justice." 
"  But,"  continued  Biddulph,  "  really,  a  man 
who  had  only  then  made  some  little  money  by 
the  invention  of  a  clever  machine ;  a  man  whom 
you  met  by  accident — for  he  had  no  recognized 
position  in  your  world — who  was  about  as 
much  out  of  place  there  as  a  white  bear  would 
be  in  Sahara.  No,  he  was  not  one  whom  I  had 
been  led  to  expect  you  would  marry,  or  whom 
I  would  care  to  have  for  a  son-in-law." 

"  Has  he  not  always  been  perfect  with  you  ?  " 
"  Personally,"  said  Biddulph,  "  I  do  not  com 
plain.     He  has  borne  himself  with  a  deference 
and  delicacy  truly  remarkable  considering  what 
must  have  been  his  early — disadvantages.     I 
have  no  reason  to  say  anything.     I  do  not  say 
anything.     I  am  satisfied  if  you  are  happy." 
"  And  I  am,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  ;  you  do 
not  know  how  happy." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Biddulph,  losing  some 
thing  of  his  habitual  half -raillery  that  so  easily 
changed  to  querulousness,  "  this  is  all  I  really 
ask,  but  we  seem  to  have  such  different  ideas 
of  happiness.  I  had  imagined  I  could  give  you 
something  better ;  but  you  did  not  want  any- 


192  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

thing  better  ;  you  wanted  Armroyd,  and  what 
one  wants  is  so  often  so  much  better  than  the 
best,  that  I  suppose  I  have  been  wise  in  letting 
you  have  him.  Whatever  else  one  may  do, 
one  can  never  be  happy  in  another's  way.  I 
inay  have  been  weakly  indulgent,  as  I  always 
have  been,  and  have  given  him  to  you  as,  at 
another  age,  I  would  have  given  you  any  costly 
plaything.  I  have  known  many  women  and 
have  learned  something  of  their  ways.  Never 
oppose  them.  Let  them  go  to  the  devil,  or 
his  equivalent,  in  their  own  way,  and  they  will 
bear  you  no  grudge.  Obstruct  them  but  with 
a  straw,  and  they  will  hate  you,  for  they  will 
not  doubt  that  they  would  have  enjoyed,  but 
for  the  straw,  that  supreme,  that  final  happi 
ness  that  every  woman  seems  continually  and 
feverishly  to  seek.  Instinctively  I  acted  toward 
you  as  toward  any  other  woman — knowing  that 
you  are  all  alike — for  all  women  are  the  same  ; 
only  the  conditions  that  are  required  to  make 
them  so  are  really  ever  different." 

"But,  papa,  are  you  not  contented  now? 
has  it  not  all  been  for  the  best  ?  " 

Biddulph  did  not  at  once  reply. 

"  If  your  mother  had  lived,"  he  said,  in  a 
moment,  "  she  would  have  wished  you  to  do  as 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  193 

you  have  done.  That  thought  influenced  me. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  like 
her,  really  more  her  child  than  mine,  and  I 
thought  she  would  understand  what  was  best 
for  you  much  better  than  I  could  hope  to  do. 
I  loved  her  dearly,  but  I  am  afraid  that  I  some 
times  made  her — not  quite  happy — not  as 
happy  as  she  might  have  been.  I  felt  that  I 
did  not  fully  understand  her,  and  it  was  the 
fear  that  I  might  not  understand  you — might 
inflict  upon  you  some  grief  that  I  could  not 
fully  comprehend — that  made  me  finally  give 
my  consent." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  gently. 

"Yes,"  continued  Biddulph,  "she  —  your 
mother — could  believe — well  —  in  short,  be 
lieved,  and  my  incredulity,  my  scepticism,  was 
always  a  trouble  to  her.  At  the  last,"  Biddulph 
paused  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head,  "  at  the  last,  when  I  knew  that  she  was 
dying,  then  I  first  realized  the  barrenness  of 
disbelief.  How  happy  they  must  be  who  can 
trust  in  the  hereafter !  How  comparatively 
bearable  would  have  been  even  that  separation, 
if  I  could  have  thought  that  we  would  ever 
meet  again  !  But,"  Biddulph's  voice  broke,  for 

a  minute  he  could  not  speak,  and  when  he  did, 
13 


194  A  MATTER   OF   FACT 

it  was  with  the  weak  trenmlousness  of  fore 
running  age,  in  the  shaking,  time-worn  articu 
lation  of  senility  which  was  not  yet  his,  "  since 
then,"    he    continued,   more    composedly,    "I 
have  never  been  the  same.     But  I  could  make 
you  happy,  and  in  yielding  to  your  every  wish 
I  sought  to  make  some  atonement  to  her.     And 
I  gave  up  more  than  you  know.     If  Armroyd 
was  not  positively  repugnant  to  me,  there  could 
be  no  sympathy  between  us.     The  slight  ten 
tacles  that  nature  puts  forth  in  first  distrust, 
brought  to  each  knowledge  of  the  unlikeness 
of  himself  to  the  other.     But  time  has  so  soft 
ened  our  relations  that,  whatever  I  may  be  to 
him,  I  am  glad  that  we  more  than  bear  with 
each  other.     He  knew  that  you  were  all  that 
was  left  to  me,  and  has  not  insisted  upon  tak 
ing  you  wholly  from  me.     I  am  grateful  to  him 
that  he  has  consented  to   live  in  my  house, 
something  another  might  not  have  been  will 
ing  to  do — and  I  do  not  misinterpret  his  rea 
son.     He  did  not,  I  am  convinced,  wish   to 
separate   us   utterly ;   but    then   he   must,    of 
course,  have  realized  that  you  were  both  large 
ly  dependent  upon  me." 

Eleanor's    face    burned   with    a   quick,    in 
dignant   flush ;    she   with   difficulty   withheld 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  195 

the  words  that  evidently  pressed  for  utter 
ance. 

"  Of  course  it  was  a  great  advance,"  con 
tinued  Biddulph,  in  the  same  vein — "a  won 
derful  piece  of  good  fortune  for  him,  and  he 
should  have  been  grateful.  He  had  the  good 
sense  also  to  recognize  my  sacrifice — his  in 
equality 

"  Papa ! "  exclaimed  Eleanor,  facing  her 
father  with  eyes  blazing  through  unshed  tears, 
"  I  will  not  bear  it,  I  will  not  have  you  say 
such  things.  Stephen  is  more  than  my  equal. 
He  is  good,  wise,  noble,  brave,  strong,  and — 
so  handsome." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Biddulph,  indulgently. 

"  You  do  not  know  him,"  continued  Eleanor, 
"you  do  not  understand  him.  You  have 
lived  in  your  assumed  superiority,  you  have 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  reach  you.  His 
position  has  not  been  an  easy  one.  You  say 
he  has  been  perfect  with  you.  He  has  been 
as  perfect  with  everyone,  about  everything. 
Think  how  splendidly  he  has  always  treated 
that  Mr.  Kunyon." 

An  unwonted  look  of  stern  severity  came 
into  Biddulph's  face,  and  Eleanor  paused  for  a 
moment. 


196  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

"  You  know  very  well,"  she  continued,  more 
calmly,  "  that  Eunyon  never  really  did  any 
thing  for  him.  Tho  money  he  lent  him  to  ad 
vance  his  invention,  Stephen  could  have  got 
anywhere.  Still,  when  the  machine  was  suc 
cessful,  Stephen  paid  Eunyon  over  and  over 
again.  He  has  helped  him  in  trouble  after 
trouble,  and  Eunyon  is  always  in  trouble.  It 
was  only  yesterday  that  Stephen  first  refused 
any  one  of  his  demands,  and  then  only  because 
it  was  so  outrageous." 

"Eunyon  has  been  to  see  him  again,  has 
he  ?  "  half  sneered  Biddulph,  visibly  annoyed, 
however,  by  what  he  heard. 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  tell 
you,  but  I  forgot.  I  knew  it  would  trouble 
you.  Eunyon  has  been  here  once  more.  And 
after  all  Stephen  has  done  for  him,  too." 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"Twenty-five  thousand  dollars,"  answered 
Eleanor,  "  and  when  Stephen  refused,  Eunyon 
was  angry  and  insolent,  and  said  he  would 
bring  a  suit  against  him." 

"  And  your  husband  ?  "  asked  Biddulph. 

"  Told  Eunyon,"  replied  Eleanor,  "  that  the 
threat  confirmed  his  refusal." 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  ?  " 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  197 

"  Stephen  prefers  to  endure  the  annoyance 
of  the  suit.  There  is  nothing,  he  says,  of  the 
claim." 

"  Nothing  of  the  claim !  "  exclaimed  Bid- 
dulph,  excitedly.  "  But  there  is,  in  one  sense. 
Do  you  think  that  it  is  nothing  that  a  suit 
will  be  brought  against  your  husband,  my  son- 
in-law,  for  money  claimed  to  have  been  lent, 
advanced — whatever  it  is  called — to  aid  him  in 
something  about  a  machine,"  and  he  scornfully, 
spitefully  accented  the  word,  "  a  machine  mak 
ing,  I  believe,  more  cheaply  something  greatly 
superior  to  anything  of  the  kind  that  could  be 
produced  before  ?  Do  you  know  what  the 
world  will  say  ?  It  will  say  that  Armroyd  has 
robbed  Bunyon.  And  there  will  be  talk  and 
newspaper  articles.  Probably  my  name — your 
name — will  be  brought  into  the  affair  in  some 
way." 

"What  would  it  matter?" 

"A  great  deal,"  answered  Biddulph,  im 
patiently.  "It  would  not  be  pleasant— it 
would  not  be  endurable.  In  a  business  sense 
the  affair  may  be  wholly  justifiable,  but — I 
know  nothing  about  business  and  I  don't  like 
it."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  he  added : 
"  I  suppose  that  if  the  man  got  the  twenty-five 


198  A  MATTEK   OF  FACT 

thousand  dollars,  even  that  would  not  be  the 
last  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Eleanor,  positively,  "  Kun- 
yon  would  sign  papers,  do  something  that 
would  end  everything.  I  wanted  Stephen  to 
give  him  the  money,  but  he  would  not.  He 
said  that  it  was  not  right  to  suffer  such  an  im 
position  ;  as  a  matter  of  business  principle  he 
could  not  allow  it." 

"  Business !  "  said  Biddulph,  in  a  tone  too 
well  bred  perhaps  to  be  a  sneer,  but  still  won 
derfully  suggestive  of  one.  "  Business  !  Are 
there  not  other  considerations — that  my  name 
should  be  kept  from  common  scandal?  that 
his  own  name  even  should  be  kept  from  easy 
defamation  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Eleanor,  "  that  Stephen 
would  never  do  anything  that  would  be  un 
worthy  of  your  name  or  his  own." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Biddulph  ;  "  I  have 
seen  something  of  these  practical  businessmen 
and — their  ways  are  not  my  ways.  Armroyd 
might  do  what  he  thought  right  according  to 
his  lights ;  but " — Biddulph  shook  his  head — 
"  he  has  no  traditions,  no  inherited  instincts 
to  guide  him." 

The  servant  re-entered  the  room. 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  199 

"  Mr.  Tollison  has  called  and  says  he  desires 
to  see  you,  sir,"  he  announced,  standing  like 
some  stiff  but  very  life-like  figure  that  had 
been  rolled  in  upon  well-oiled  wheels,  and  left 
in  that  particular  spot. 

"  Yes,"  said  Biddulph,  "  and  yet  I  did  not 
send  for  him." 

"  Shall  I  go  ?  "  asked  Eleanor. 

"  For  a  moment,"  answered  Biddulph.  "  I 
do  not  know  what  Tollison  may  want,  and  he 
may  find  it  difficult  to  state  his  business  with, 
you  here.  He  is  an  excellent  man  of  affairs — 
has  managed  the  estate  for  me  admirably  all 
these  years — but  he  is  hardly  at  his  ease  in 
the  presence  of  a  lady." 

Biddulph  had  scarcely  time,  after  Eleanor 
had  left  the  room,  to  take  a  turn  or  two,  as  he 
did,  with  doubtful  and  wavering  steps  across 
the  library,  when  the  servant  again  appeared 
and  announced : 

"  Mr.  Tollison." 

A  small,  neatly  dressed  man  came  uncer 
tainly  forward  and  nervously  took  the  hand 
that  Biddulph  condescendingly  held  out  to 
him. 

"  Ah,  Tollison,"  said  Biddulph,  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you ;  indeed  I  may  say  that  your 


200  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

coming  has  been  most  opportune.  But  first, 
about  what  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular,  nothing,"  answered 
Tollison,  with  his  handkerchief  at  his  heated 
forehead.  "  But  you  told  me  to  call  from  time 
to  time,  and — 

"  I  believe  I  did.  Sit  down,  Tollison,"  said 
Biddulph  to  the  still  standing  man.  "But 
really  I  cannot  imagine  why.  You  know  I 
have  perfect  confidence  in  you ;  that  I  under 
stand  very  little  about  the  transaction  of  af 
fairs,  and  that  the  property  was  very  fortu 
nately  left  to  me  in  such  condition  that  it  has 
always  been  very  easy  to  manage  it." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Tollison. 

"  And  I  luckily  have  been  so  placed — inher 
iting  from  my  father  a  fortune  so  wisely  in 
vested  and  a  man  of  business  in  every  way  so 
capable  as  you — that  I  have  not  been  obliged 
to  give  money  matters  even  a  thought.  You 
cut  the  coupons,  I  spend  the  proceeds,  that 
has  been  about  all  that  has  been  necessary; 
and  I  think  our  respective  tasks  have  been 
quite  congenial  to  both  of  us — for  I  have  ob 
served,  Tollison,  that  it  has  always  been  a 
certain  satisfaction  to  you,  the  mere  hand 
ling  of  money,  while  the  only  pleasure  I 


A  MATTEL  OF  FACT  201 

liave  ever  had  in  it  lias  been  the  getting  rid 
of  it." 

Tollison  laughed  as  one  who  feels  that  a 
laugh  is  expected,  but  still  uncertainly,  as  if 
fearful  that  what  he  was  doing  might  not  be 
quite  right. 

"But  I  said  your  coming  was  opportune," 
said  Biddulph.  "If  you  had  not  come,  I 
should  have  been  obliged  to  send  for  you. 
There  is  a  certain  little  matter  to  which  I  de 
sire  that  you  should  attend  at  once." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Biddulph." 

"  The  fact  is  that  I  want  some  money  for  a 
particular  purpose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tollison,  again  becoming  mono 
syllabic  and  speaking  as  if  his  only  thought 
was  to  avoid  any  possibility  of  discussion. 

"  It's  a  largish  sum,  but  of  course  there  will 
be  no  difficulty  about  j^our  letting  me  have  it 
—well — to-morrow  morning." 

"No,"  answered  Tollison,  but  there  was  more 
of  hesitation  than  of  certainty  in  his  tone. 

"  I  want  twenty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"  Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  ! "  repeated 
Tollison,  perceptibly  startled. 

"  Twenty-five  thousand  dollars,"  said  Bid 
dulph,  sharply,  "a  mere  trifle — an  amount  that, 


202  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

with  my  fortune  invested  as  it  is,  you  can 
easily  raise  in  an  hour." 

«  But "  began  Tollison. 

"  To-morrow  morning  will  do,"  said  Bid- 
dulph,  rather  peremptorily.  "  I  shall  not  want 
the  money  before  then." 

"  But "  again  began  Tollison,  sitting  on 

the  very  edge  of  his  chair,  "  the  purpose — if  I 
might  know  why  you  want  this  sum — this 
large  sum  of  money." 

"  Tollison,  my  good  friend,"  said  Biddulph, 
suppressing  his  annoyance,  "  it  has  never  been 
my  custom  to  consult  you  about  the  disposi 
tion  of  my  money,  and  I  do  not  see  any  reason 
for  doing  so  now.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  I 
consider  what  you  have  said  ill-timed  and  ex 
tremely  unsuitable." 

"Still,  Mr.  Biddulph,"  insisted  the  little 
man,  in  pitiable  agitation,  "if  I  should  venture 
to  inquire ' 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Biddulph,  in  unre 
strained  anger,  "am  I  not  to  do  what  I  please 
with  my  own  ?  We  have  known  each  other  a 
long  time,  Mr.  Tollison,  and  I  must  say  you 
have  served  me  faithfully  and  well,  but  do  not, 
I  pray,  forget  yourself,  Mr.  Tollison.  I  can 
not,  even  in  view  of  the  many  years  you  have 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  203 

been  in  my  employ — the  employ  of  my  family 
—permit  you  to  inquire  into  my  motives  or 
question  my  actions." 

"But  I  must  know,  Mr.  Biddulph,"  said 
Tollison,  in  an  agony  of  embarrassment.  "You 
have  never  asked  for  so  large  a  sum  before, 
and  I  must  ask  you  to  tell  me,  or  else " 

"  Or  else  ?  "  interrupted  Biddulph,  in  aston 
ishment.  "What  do  you  mean — that  other 
wise  you  cannot  get  it  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  Tollison,  so 
confused  that  he  evidently  had  lost  all  self- 
control.  "  Only  tell  me,"  he  went  on,  beseech 
ingly,  "  and  I  will  see  that  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  There  is  something  here  that  I  do  not  un 
derstand,"  insisted  Biddulph  with  great  sever 
ity,  looking  squarely  at  the  almost  trembling 
man  before  him.  "Am  I  to  believe  that  it  is 
necessary  for  you  to  know  what  disposition  I 
intend  to  make  of  the  money  before  you  can 
procure  it  ?  You  cannot  mean  to  imply  that, 
for  it  would  be  absurd." 

"  You  said  you  have  always  trusted  me,  Mr. 
Biddulph,"  begged  Tollison ;  "  trust  me  in 
this.  I  am  not  good  at  concealments,  and  if 
you  will  only  not  question  me,  you  will  find 
that  it  will  be  all  right." 


20i  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

Biddulph  seated  liimself  in  front  of  the  now 
thoroughly  excited  man,  with  great  delibera 
tion  and  with  something  of  a  judicial  air. 

"  Tollison,"  he  said,  "  there  is  some  mystery 
here.  I  intend  to  know  what  it  is.  As  you 
say,  you  are  not  skilful  in  subterfuge,  and  you 
had  best  tell  me  at  once." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  ask  me  nothing — for 
your  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  others." 

"  I  direct  you  to  raise  for  me  a  certain  sum 
of  money  which,  although  large,  is  not  enor 
mous,"  continued  Biddulph,  utterly  disregard 
ing  these  entreaties,  "  and  you  insist  upon  my 
telling  you  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  it,  im 
plying  that  if  you  do  not  know  this,  the  thing 
cannot  be  accomplished." 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  groaned  Tollison. 

"  That,  at  least,  was  the  impression  I  gath 
ered  from  your  words,"  continued  Biddulph, 
pitilessly,  "  and  I  must  conclude  that  it  was  a 
just  one.  If  the  knowledge  of  my  purpose  is 
all  that  is  necessary  in  order  to  effect  the  pro 
curement  of  this  sum,  then  there  cannot  be 
any  real  lack  of  power  to  raise  the  money." 

"  No,"  Tollison  hastened  to  respond. 

"  The  money  will  be  forthcoming  from  some 
where,"  asserted  Biddulph. 


A  MAT  TEE  OF  FACT  205 

"Yes." 

"But  still  there  is  something  unexplained. 
You  cannot  assure  me  truthfully,  on  your  word 
as  an  honest  man,  that  I  can  have  what  I  wish 
without  revealing  to  you  my  intention  ?  " 

Biddulph,  looking  narrowly  with  his  sharp, 
old  worldly  eyes  at  Tollison,  saw  that  a  tre 
mendous  struggle  agitated  him. 

"  No,"  answered  Tollison,  at  length. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  very  well.  Now  we  shall  soon 
understand.  It  must  be,  then,  that  there  is 
some  one  else  concerned  in  this  affair." 

"Mr.  Biddulph,"  cried  Tollison,  in  utter  dis 
may,  "  you  really  must  ask  me  nothing  more." 

"  There  is  some  one  else  concerned,  and  I  am 
not  entire  master  of  my  own  affairs.  How  can 
that  have  happened?  Through  no  fault  of 
yours,  Mr.  Tollison,  I  am  sure— 

"  No,  Mr.  Biddulph,"  said  Tollison,  proud 
ly ;"  everyone  has  conceded  that.  All  that 
could  be  done  I  did,  and  when —  •"  he  paused 
now  in  even  greater  consternation  than  before, 
having  evidently  said  more  than  he  had  in 
tended. 

"  Something  has  happened,"  said  Biddulph, 
quite  pleasantly,  "  and  from  the  connection,  it 
has  something  to  do  with  my  money  matters  ?  " 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT 


He  waited  for  an  answer,  looking  at  Tolli- 
son  with  a  fixedness  that  finally  led  the  latter 
to  hesitatingly  murmur  : 

"  Yes." 

"  Now,  from  the  fact,"  continued  Biddulph, 
relentlessly,  "  that  you  hesitate  about  comply 
ing  with  my  demand,  I  must  argue  that  it  is 
something  unpleasant.  There  is  some  diffi 
culty  that  you  have  kept  from  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and — no,"  stammered  Tollison. 

"  As  you  will  readily  understand,  it  is  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  me  to  find  out  what  it  is. 
If,  with  my  fortune,  I  cannot  at  once  raise  so 
insignificant  a  sum  as  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars,  the  situation  must  be  very  serious." 

Tollison  was  silent. 

"  This  is  a  matter  that  will  admit  of  no  tri 
fling,"  went  on  Biddulph,  and  his  manner, 
which  had  been  apparently  easy  and  almost 
indifferent,  suddenly  became  stem  and  impres 
sive.  "  Misfortune  has  happened,  and  the  fact 
has  been  withheld  from  me,  as  it  could  easily 
be,  from  one  who  has  given  no  more  attention 
to  details  than  I  have." 

"Yes,"  gasped  Tollison;  "but  really  it  is 
nothing ;  "  then  using  the  phrase  he  had  em 
ployed  before,  "  it  will  be  all  right." 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  207 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  think  otherwise,  Tol- 
lison,"  said  Biddulph,  quietly.  "  From  your 
manner  I  see  that  it  is  more  serious  than  I 
had  anticipated.  Is  it  ruin  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  cried  Tollison,  "  I  can  say 
nothing — I -" 

"It  is  ruin,"  said  Biddulph,  without  the  al 
teration  of  a  tone  or  the  variation  of  an  in 
flection.  "  But  why  have  I  not  been  told  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  fault.  I  advised  it.  I  argued 
that  it  should  be  done." 

"  Then  I  am  to  infer  that  what  I  should  have 
known  —  knowledge  of  my  own  affairs — has 
been  kept  from  me  by  you  through  the  influ 
ence  of  others — or  another  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Armroyd,  sir,  and  Mr.  Armroyd " 

"  They  desired  that  I  should  remain  in 
ignorance  of  my  loss  ? "  quietly  demanded 
Biddulph. 

"  They  thought  it  was  best — that  you  might 
be  saved  trouble — that,  as  it  would  make  no 
difference ' ' 

"  Not  make  any  difference  ?  " 

"  No — you  see,  Mr.  Armroyd  has  made  such 
a  large  fortune  in  the  last  three  years — that 
everything  —  could  be  earned  on  just  the 
same." 


208  A  MAT  TEE  OF  FACT 

"  And  it  has  been  his  money  that  has  main 
tained  this  establishment — that  has  enabled  it 
to  go  on  as  it  has — that  has  given  me  what  I 
have  had?" 

"  Yes,"  continued  Tollison,  now  utterly  de 
moralized,  "  since  you  lost  all." 

"  All?  "  repeated  Biddulph. 

"  Yes,  sir,  all.  They  thought  —  for  they 
realized  how  proud  you  are — that  you  would 
be  happier  if  you  did  not  know,  and  so  they 
forced  me  into  helping  them  in  the  deception 
— and  we  have  succeeded,  although  now " 

"And  I  have  been  mistaken  about  every 
thing  all  these  years  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  I  am  to  understand  that  I  have  been 
living  all  this  time  on  the  bounty  of  Mr.  Arm- 
royd,  my  son-in-law  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  that.  Of  course  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Armroyd  never  looked  at  it  in  that  way." 

"That  I  am  a  pauper  dependent  upon 
others  ?  " 

"No — no!"  cried  Tollison,  appalled  at  the 
effect  of  his  revelations.  "  You  do  not  see — 
let  me  explain." 

"My  good  sir,"  said  Biddulph,  with  his 
stateliest  air,  "I  must  ask  you  to  withdraw  for 


A  MAT  TEE  OF  FACT  209 

a  short  time ;  I  wish  to  speak  a  few  moments 
with  my  daughter,  alone." 

As  Eleanor  entered  the  room  she  saw  some 
thing  unusual  had  happened. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  running  to  Biddulph  and 
putting  her  arms  about  him.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

Biddulph  sat  like  one  who,  just  recovering 
consciousness,  has  not  yet  reached  full  reali 
zation  of  his  situation.  As  he  did  not  at  once 
answer  she  asked  again,  with  even  greater  evi 
dence  of  apprehension  : 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  have  learned  the  truth." 

"Mr.  Tollison ?" 

"  Tollison  has  told  me  all." 

"  And  he  promised  us  that  you  should  never 
know,"  grieved  Eleanor. 

"  I  hardly  think  that  he  is  really  to  blame," 
continued  Biddulph,  quietly ;  "  I  pressed  him 
pretty  hard,  and  he  is  not  a  person  of  great 
presence  of  mind  or  strength  of  resistance." 

"  But  you  will  not  think  of  it  again  ?  You 
will  forget  you  ever  knew  or  heard  of  it  ?  "  be 
sought  Eleanor. 

"  I  do  not  know  what   to  say   or  what  to 
think.     I  am  stunned,  prostrated.     The  shock 
14 


210  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

lias  been  very  great,  and  I  cannot  tell  how  it 
will  affect  me." 

"  But  we  did  it  for  the  best,"  she  moaned. 
"  We  wished  to  spare  you  all  we  could.  We 
knew  you  would  feel  the  loss  deeply,  and 
Stephen " 

"Yes." 

"  When  I  proposed  that  we  should  try  and 
keep  you  in  ignorance,  Stephen  at  once  as 
sented.  I  knew  how  you  felt  about  him,  and 
I  was  afraid  you  might  think  of  him  mistaken 
ly.  Remember  you  are  a  very  proud  man " 

"  And  you  did  this  to  spare  my  pride  ?  " 

"  We  did  it  because  there  was  no  real  reason 
why  we  should  do  otherwise.  What  you  lost 
is  little  in  comparison  with  what  Stephen  has 
gained  —what  he  will  gain.  You  do  not  know 
about  him — he  is  one  of  the  rich  men  of  the 
city — of  the  country — a  power — an  influence. 
Within  the  last  few  years  he  has  been  success 
ful  in  all  he  has  undertaken,  and  everyone  re 
spects  and  honors  him.  You,  living  as  you 
have,  cut  off  from  the  world,  have  heard  noth 
ing  of  this.  Father,  you  must  say  that  you 
were  wrong,  and  that  I  was  right.  You  must 
say  it. " 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  Biddulph,  sadly.  "  You 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  211 

must  give  me  time  to  collect  my  thoughts. 
One  cannot  suddenly  find  the  fabric  of  his  life 
rent  and  ruined,  and  remain  unmoved;  one 
cannot  discover  that  the  idea  of  his  whole  ex 
istence  has  been  utterly  mistaken,  and  instant 
ly  command  every  faculty." 

"  But  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  feel 
it — everything  will — must  go  on  as  it  always 
has,"  urged  Eleanor,  eagerly. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  murmured 
Biddulph,  weakly  and  perplexedly.  "  I  do  not 
seem  to  have  quite  my  accustomed  vigor." 

Indeed,  he  seemed  to  have  aged  with  strange 
suddenness — a  paleness  overspread  his  face — 
there  was  a  tremulousness  in  his  long,  lean 
hand  never  there  before,  and  his  glance  was 
for  the  moment  wandering  and  objectless. 

"  There  can  be  no  change — everything  is  the 
same — except  some  miserable  money." 

"  But  I  am  penniless —  a  pauper." 

"  You  are  not.  Do  you  think  that  Stephen 
was  without  pride  and  that  it  was  not  hard  for 
him,  comparatively  without  fortune,  as  he  then 
was,  to  marry  me — the  heiress  ?  You  must  now 
forget  your  pride  as  much  as  he  did  then — un 
derstanding  that  it  is  a  joy  to  him  to  find  him 
self  in  a  position  to  benefit  you— to  benefit  us." 


212  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

"I  do  not  seem  very  clear  in  my  mind, 
Nellie,"  said  Biddulph,  continuing  what  he 
had  said  before  rather  than  responding  to  her 
last  speech.  "  It  seems  as  if  in  some  way  my 
faculties  had  been  benumbed  by  this  blow.  I 
am  an  old  man,"  he  paused,  irresolutely,  "I 
have  been  proud  and  imperious,  and  self-con 
fident.  Perhaps  this  is  retribution." 

But  he  did  not  appear  to  be  really  as  much 
moved  by  the  revelation  to  which  he  had  just 
listened  as  Eleanor  might  have  imagined  that 
he  would  be ;  either  the  callousness  of  age  or 
a  certain  indifference  which  he  himself  would 
never  have  suspected,  seemed  to  enable  him  to 
endure  so  well  the  overthrow  of  so  much  that 
he  had  considered  assured. 

"  You  did  it  for  the  best,"  he  went  on,  piti 
fully,  "  you  and  he — but  still  I  should  have 
liked  to  know." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  curiously  and  then 
hastened  to  speak : 

"And  now  everything  shall  be  as  it  was, 
only  you  will  understand  Stephen  better,  and 
all — everything  will  be  clear." 

Biddulph  slowly  bowed  his  head  with  some 
thing  of  an  inattentive  air. 

"  Will   you   send   Tollison  away  ?     I   don't 


A  MATTER  OF  FACT  213 

think  I  care  to  see  him  again  to-day.  I  am 
hardly  equal  to  talking  about  business." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Eleanor,  leaning  over 
him  and  kissing  him  upon  the  brow  as  he  sat 
bent  in  his  chair.  "  And  now  let  me  make  you 
comfortable." 

She  brought  a  footstool  and  placed  it  before 
him — then  she  arranged  the  cushions  for  him 
to  lean  against. 

"Now  you  are  all  right,"  she  said,  standing 
off  and  contemplating  her  work. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  listlessly. 

She  was  going,  when  he  stopped  her. 

"  I  should  like,"  he  said,  "  to  see  your — to 
see  Stephen  Armroyd.  You  will  tell  him  so 
for  me,  and  he  will  come  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  have  been  mistaken,"  he  said  slowly, 
"but  there  was  nothing  to  lead  me  to  suspect 
that  I  was.  It  seemed  so  clear  to  me  that  I 
knew  all  that  I  needed  to  know,  and  so  impos 
sible  that  there  could  be  anything  else."  Then 
he  added,  returning  to  his  former  careless, 
courtly  manner,  and  speaking  with  his  habitual 
lightness — as  it  were  shrugging  aside  annoy 
ance  with  the  graceful  ease  of  which  he  had 
always  been  master — "Before  you  go  could 


214  A  MATTER  OF  FACT 

you  give  me  a  book?  Spinoza's  "Tractatus 
Theologico-Politicus."  You'll  find  it  on  the 
third  shelf  at  the  right  of  the  door.  I  wish  to 
verify  a  quotation." 

As  Eleanor  handed  him  the  volume  he  spoke 
again. 

"  Spinoza  perhaps  did  not  see  with  the  com 
plete  clearness  of  some ;  still  his  conclusions 
are  always  interesting.  Facts  to  him  were 
perhaps  not  the  paramount  and  only  things 
they  should  always  be.  But  his  was  a  marvel 
ous  intellect — a  charming  personality.  Thank 
you.  And  do  not  forget  that  I  should  like  to 
speak  with  your  husband.  I  can  manage  to  see 
him  at  almost  any  time." 


A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 


A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 


THE  Lone  Star  was  the  oldest  propeller  of 
standard  class  "  on  the  Lakes."  It  was 
twenty  years  or  more  since  the  blocks  were 
knocked  from  under  her  at  the  Cleveland  ship 
yard  where  she  had  been  built,  and  she  slid 
down  the  ways,  her  starboard  side  striking  the 
water  first  and  a  groat  wave  rising  as  she  struck, 
that  foamed  across  the  basin  and  broke  high 
upon  an  opposite  pier.  During  this  score  of 
years  she  had  run  between  Buffalo  and  Chicago, 
touching  sometimes,  but  not  always,  at  Cleve 
land,  at  Detroit,  at  Milwaukee,  with  a  regular 
ity  so  great  that  it  was  now  her  greatest  if  not 
her  only  merit. 

Once  the  Star — that  soon  had  become  her 
name  in  common  usage — had  been  the  pride 
of  her  owners,  the  boast  of  her  home-port. 
She  was  shown  to  "visiting  statesmen  "  when 


218  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

it  was  desired  to  impress  them  with  the  im 
portance  of  the  "  Commerce  of  the  Lakes ; " 
she  was  mentioned  in  swelling  editorials  when 
ever  the  local  newspapers  descanted  upon  that 
theme.  Her  speed,  her  tonnage,  her  power, 
her  build,  were  subjects  of  frequent  eulogy. 
She  was  a  practical  wonder ;  a  marvel  of 
naval  architecture.  But  now  all  was  differ 
ent.  She  was  no  longer  visited  by  commit 
tees.  She  was  no  longer  mentioned  in  print 
except  in  some  such  brief  announcements 
as :  "  Detroit — Passed  up,  Lone  Star,  11.20 
P.M."  "  Buffalo— Arrived,  Prop.  L.  Star,  Stark 
weather,  wheat  and  flour.  Stoke  &  Pogis." 
Other  propellers  had  been  built — others  upon 
better  lines,  of  greater  speed  and  power — others 
in  whose  holds  could  be  stowed  thousands 
more  bushels  of  the  beaded  amber  of  the  bil 
lowy  Minnesota  wheat-fields,  thousands  more 
feet  of  the  yellow  Michigan  lumber,  and  tons 
and  tons  more  of  the  tawny  copper  of  true 
aboriginal  hue,  taken  from  the  Lake  Superior 
mines.  But  the  Star  held  steadily  to  her 
original  trade ;  had  grown  old,  evidently  old, 
in  it.  Even  the  new  coat  of  paint  given  her 
every  spring  did  not  hide  that  unpleasant  fact. 
There  were  dents  and  patches  and  cracks  which 


A   FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          21i) 

paint  could  not  entirely  cover  or  caulking  quite 
conceal.  And  if  advanced  years  did  not  make 
her  appear  wholly  shabby  or  dilapidated  they 
did  not  give  her  picturesqueness.  She  was 
only  a  "  Lake  propeller,"  with  nothing  of  that 
charm  of  association  which  gathers  around  her 
far-away  kindred  of  the  ocean.  She  stirred  no 
thoughts  of  distant  lands  ;  of 

"  The  Indian  winds, 

That  blow  off  from  the  coast,  and  cheer  the  sailor 
With  the  sweet  savor  of  their  spices  ; " 

of  many  climates  ;  of  strange  peoples  ;  of  mon 
sters  with  uncommon  names ;  of  drifting  ice 
bergs  ;  of  all  that  adventure,  that  poetry,  that 
romance  have  given  to  ships,  even  in  their  fall 
en  estate,  that  have  sought  wider  seas.  Her 
very  form  would  have  killed  imagination.  She 
was  broad  of  beam.  Her  bows  were  bluff. 
Fancy  could  liken  her  to  nothing  known  to 
poetry,  unless,  perhaps,  to  the  blunt-headed 
grasshopper.  She  was  not  unlike  that  insect 
in  build,  for  her  high  arches  rose  above  her 
hull  like  the  insect's  legs  above  its  folded, 
sheathing  wings.  Still  she  was  as  admirably 
adapted  for  the  purposes  for  which  she  was  in 
tended  as  are  most  of  our  American  produc 
tions,  even  if  she  was  as  frankly  and  fearlessly 


220  A  FRESH-  WA  TER  ROMANCE 

ugly  a  thing  as  we  Americans  alone  dare  make 
or  use  when  we  have  a  distinct  and  practical 
end  in  view — as  ugly  as  an  elevator,  an  elevat 
ed  railroad,  the  advertisement  of  the  last  pat 
ent  medicine,  a  new  political  theory. 

There  was  probably  only  one  person  who 
ever  thought  the  Lone  Star  beautiful — Nettie 
Starkweather,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of 
the  captain — of  Captain  Samuel  Starkweather, 
who  "  brought  out "  the  boat  and  had  been  her 
captain  ever  since.  And  why  should  she  not  ? 
She  was  "a  Lake  girl,  born  and  bred  in  the  big 
city  which  owed  its  origin  and  early  growth  to 
the  Lakes,  and  had  never  seen  anything  differ 
ent.  Besides,  there  was  one  proud  day  in  her 
very  young  life,  always  vividly  remembered. 
Had  she  not,  an  insignificant  mite  of  a  thing, 
but  upon  that  great  day,  far  from  unimportant 
or  inconspicuous  in  her  stiff-starched  white 
dress  and  broad,  blue  sash — had  she  not  chris 
tened  the  boat  when  it  was  launched,  and, 
hardly  realizing  what  she  did,  but  knowing  that 
it  was  something  very  important,  had  she  not 
broken  the  bottle  over  the  boat's  bow  and  seen 
the  bright,  foaming  wine  run  slowly  along  the 
rail?  And  then  she  had  been  brought  up 
with  the  boat,  so  to  speak,  and  to  it  she  owed 


A   FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE  221 

much.  For  not  only  had  her  father  had  his 
pay  as  captain  for  so  many  years,  but  he  had 
come  to  own  a  sixteenth  interest  in  her,  and 
had  always  had  that  share  in  her  net  earnings 
besides.  Therefore  to  the  old  propeller  they 
owed  not  only  their  living  but  all  they  had, 
even  the  ring  upon  her  small  finger,  the  chain 
around  her  slender  neck,  and  the  watch  hex 
father  had  given  her  at  Christmas. 

But  now  there  was  a  new  interest  to  Nettie 
Starkweather  in  the  old  propeller.  That  very 
morning  her  father  had  told  her  that  if  David 
Sackett  received  his  license  as  chief  mate — 
and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  would — that 
"  Dave  "  was  to  go  mate  of  the  Star — he  went 
second  on  her  last  season — that  is  if  he,  Stark 
weather,  and  about  this  there  seemed  to  be  a 
suspicion  of  doubt,  was  to  be  her  captain.  Of 
course  Nettie  was  interested  in  this,  and — but 
it  is  quite  impossible  to  dissever  and  distribute 
in  parts  of  speech  the  thoughts,  the  fancies 
that  mingled  in  the  reverie  of  the  girl  as  she 
sat  silent  on  the  lower  veranda  step  stirring 
with  her  foot  the  gravel  in  the  walk  before  her 
— thoughts  and  fancies  so  vague,  so  discon 
nected,  so  novel,  that  she  herself  scarcely  rec 
ognized  even  that  they  were  delightful. 


222  A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 

All  at  once  she  laughed  a  little,  in  that  sud 
den,  mysterious  way  in  which  happy  young 
girls  will  laugh,  as  if  from  the  very  superabun 
dance  of  their  joyousness ;  and  then  she  looked 
hastily  up  at  a  young  man  who  sat  perilously 
near  the  edge  of  the  platform,  watching  the 
little  foot  as  it  scattered  the  pebbles. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  laughed,"  she  answered, 
quickly ;  "  I  just  had  to." 

The  young  man  was  about  to  speak  when 
Starkweather  came  out  through  the  front  door. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
walked  with  heavy  tread  to  a  chair,  "  and  I— 
he  paused  for  a  moment  and  beamed  placidly 
upon  the  pair — "  didn't  wait  for  you  to  come  in 
—was  afraid  you'd  think  I  was  busy  and  stay 
out." 

And  then  he  laboriously  sat  down.  Nettie 
gave  a  pebble  larger  than  the  rest  a  quick,  im 
patient  push ;  a  sudden  look  of  disappointment 
shot  across  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Mild  for  the  season — ain't  it  ?  "  the  Captain 
said,  turning  to  the  young  man. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  meekly.  "  They 
told  me  down  at  the  office " 

"  Stoke  &  Pogis's  ?  "  asked  Starkweather. 


A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE          223 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  they'd  heard  the  ice  was  al- 
mcfst  out  of  the  Straits." 

"  No  !  "  said  Starkweather.  "  When'd  they 
get  word?" 

"  This  afternoon,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Navigation'll  be  open  right  away,"  said 
Starkweather,  rather  eagerly.  "  No  more  crib- 
bage  for  us ;  don't  think  of  any  more  cribbage 
this  year.  Cribbage  is  well  enough  for  a  win 
ter  evenin',  and  I  won't  say  I  don't  like  it. 
Night  shut  down,  soft  coal  in  the  grate,  a 
storm  outside,  a  pipe,  Nettie  playing  on  the 
piano,  and  cribbage  ain't  at  all  bad.  Eh? 
What?  But — ?"  pausing  a  moment — "that 
ain't  the  openin'  of  navigation." 

"  Miss  Nettie,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
advantage  of  Starkweather's  pause,  "  I  tried  to 
get  that  song  you  told  me  about.  I  went  to 
every  music-store  in  the  city,  but  they  didn't 
have  it." 

"  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Sackett,"  said  the  girl,  "  you 
needn't  have  taken  that  trouble.  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  remembered  the  name  ?  " 

"  As  if  I  would  be  likely  to  forget  it,"  said 
Sackett,  with  lowered  voice.  " l  When  the 
Stars  come  one  by  one,  Love.'  They've  sent 
for  it.  It'll  be  here  to-morrow." 


224  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

"  Mr.  Sackett !  " 

"  And  there's  such  a  difference  in  seasons," 
continued  Starkweather,  blandly.  "  Along 
about  '78 — must  have  been  along  there — it  was 
the  season  she  " — Captain  Starkweather  hardly 
ever  mentioned  the  propeller's  name — "  came 
near  bein'  'bliged  to  winter  in  Chicago — there 
came  the  blamedest  season  —  ice  wasn't  no 
name  for  it — why,  she  didn't  get  out  o'  here, 
Sackett,  for  three  weeks  after  what  she'll  do 
now." 

"No  ?  "  said  Sackett,  absently. 

"  Emily  Marvin's  to  be  married  next  week," 
said  the  girl,  a  little  impatiently,  "  and  I'm  to 
be  bridesmaid." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  asked  Sackett,  rather  anxiously. 
"  If — if — we  aren't  out  of  port  by  that  time, 
can — would  you  mind — will  you  let  me  go  to 
the  church — to  see  you  ?  " 

"I!  The  idea !"  half  exclaimed  the  girl.  "I 
keep  you  from  church!  It'll  do  you  good.  It 
must  be  an  age  since  you've  been  in  one." 

"  "When  I  walked  home  with  you "  began 

the  young  man. 

"  But  you  weren't  at  church  then.  You  only 
happened  to  see  me  in  the  porch  where  I  was 
waiting  for  father,  who  had  gone  back  for  his 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          225 

spectacles  he  had  left  in  the  big  prayer-book. 
You  only  happened" — the  slightest  accent — 
she  couldn't  help  it,  on  the  word — "  along  that 
way  and  came  into  the  porch,  not  a  step  fur 
ther." 

"  '  Happened,'  "  -  said  the  young  man. 
"  There's  a  good  deal  in  this  world  that  *  hap 
pens  '  on  purpose." 

"  I  don't  think  it'll  amount  to  a  thing — not 
a  thing,"  said  Starkweather,  partially  to  him 
self,  "  '  specially  as  it's  now  so  late  in  the  sea 
son  ;  but  they're  keepin'  up  the  talk  that  I'm 
to  be  retired." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  asked  Sackett,  indignant- 

iy- 

"  Oh,  them  that  pretend  to  know.  As  if  a 
man  who  won't  be  sixty-three  till  December, 
wasn't  in  the  prime  o'  life.  Why,  Sackett,  you 
know  I've  sailed  these  Lakes  forty-five  years — 
I've  told  you  that  often.  '  Failin'  faculties  ! ' 
Between  you  an'  me  and  the  pawl-bitt,  Sackett, 
there's  fools  down  on  them  docks  that  can't  be 
beat  — as  fools.  <  Failin'  faculties!'"  The 
Captain  paused  in  utter  indignation. 

"  I've  heard  nothing  about  it,"  said  Sackett, 
confidently. 

"  An'  wouldn't  be  likely  to,"  went  on  Stark- 
15 


226  A   FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 

weather.  "But  there's  those  that  bring  me 
the  news  straight  enough.  I  s'pose  some  one 
wants  my  place.  He'll  have  a  good  time  get- 
tin'  it,  whoever  he  is,"  and  Starkweather 
brought  down  his  fist  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 
with  a  thud  that  almost  startled  himself. 

"  Emily  has  lots  of  presents,"  said  the  girl. 
"I  gave  her  the  loveliest  looking-glass  you 
ever  saw." 

"  Did  you  look  into  it  to  see  ? "  asked 
Sackett. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  girl. 

"There's  been  more  or  less  talk  about  this 
for  a  year  or  two,"  continued  Starkweather ; 
"but  there  seems  more  substance  to  it  this 
spring." 

"  Who's  at  the  bottom  of  it?"  asked  Sackett, 
a  little  alarmed  at  the  boldness  of  his  last 
speech,  and  running  for  protection  under  the 
lee,  as  he  might  say,  of  a  word  or  two  with  the 
Captain. 

"  I  think  it's  Jacox,"  said  Starkweather. 

"Jacox?"  asked  Sackett.  "What  has  he 
got — what  can  he  have — against  you  ?  " 

"  There's  them,"  said  the  Captain,  impres 
sively,  "  that  seem  to  think  you're  doin'  'em 
harm  by  livin'.  They  feel  you  see  through  'em, 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          227 

and  they  don't  like  it.  Jacox  is  one  of  that 
sort.  He  can't  bear  the  sight  of  me  because  I 
know  him.  They  feel  streaks  of  meanness, 
that  kind,  just  as  I  feel  shoots  of  rheumatism 
— in  the  winter,"  he  added,  cautiously,  "only 
in  the  winter — to  speak  of." 

Starkweather  settled  silently  back  into  his 
chair,  and  again  Sackett  took  heart. 

"  You'll  be  getting  out  the  flowers  in  the 
garden  soon,  Miss  Nettie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  the  beds  ought  to  be  dug  right  away." 

"  There's  a  new  kind  of  border  I  saw  in  De 
troit  last  summer,  and  I  was  thinking " 

"  They  say  it's  goin'  to  be  the  best  season 
the  Lakes  have  had  in  many  a  year,"  interrupt 
ed  Starkweather.  "  Elevators  full  at  Chicago. 
Lots  of  coal  to  go  up.  Freights'll  just  be 
boomin'." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Sackett,  a  little  impa 
tiently. 

"  You  saw  a  border  in  Detroit "  suggest 
ed  Nettie,  decidedly. 

"But  the  Lakes  are  not  what  they  used  to 
be,"  continued  Starkweather ;  "  freights  nowa 
days  ain't  nowhere.  It's  them  railroads  that 
do  it." 

"  That  fill  the  elevators  in  Chicago,  that  burn 


228          A  FRESH-  WATER  ROMANCE 

the  coal,  that "  began  Sackett,  innocently, 

and  stopping  suddenly  as  the  Captain  turned 
and  looked  sharply  at  him. 

"No,"  said  the  Captain,  severely.  "They 
kill  freights ;  don't  they  cany  all  winter  ?  They 
don't  have  seasons  of  navigation.  Have  we 
ever  had  any  such  freights  as  we  used  to  have 
before  they  got  to  runnin'  the  way  they  do? 
What  did  the  Lord  create  the  Lakes  for  if  it 
wasn't  to  travel  by  ? — to  carry  cargoes  on  ?  I 
say  railroads  go  against  nature.  They  ought 
to  be  put  down  by  act  of  Congress." 

Sackett  rose  determinedly  as  the  Captain 
paused. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  ?  "  asked  Starkweather, 
in  some  surprise. 

"I  think,"  said  Sackett,  desperately,  "I 
must  be  going." 

"Already!"  said  the  Captain,  "Why,  I 
came  out  here  for  a  good,  long  talk." 

"  I  think  I  must  go,"  maintained  Sackett. 

"All  right,  if  you  must,"  replied  the  Cap 
tain.  "  Come  and  see  us  again ;  drop  in  any 
time.  Always  glad  to  see  you.  Good-evenin'." 

"  Good-evening,  sir." 

Sackett  shook  hands  despondently  with  Net 
tie,  who  had  also  arisen. 


A  FRESH- WATER  ROMANCE          229 

"  Come  again  soon,"  said  the  girl,  gently. 

"  I  will,"  said  Sackett.  "  111  bring  the  song 
right  away." 

Nettie  stood  looking  at  him  until  she  heard 
the  latch  of  the  gate  click,  and  saw  him  turn 
down  the  street. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  her  father,  as  she  sat 
down  and  resting  her  chin  on  her  hand  gazed 
into  the  darkness,  "  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your 
self." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Captain,  "  David  Sackett's 
a  very  smart  young  man.  He  seems  to  set 
value  by  what  I  say  to  him.  But  it's  curious 
that  sometimes,  when  we've  got  an  evenin'  all 
before  iis,  and  I'm  just  warmin'  to  a  subject  I 
know  all  about,  it's  '  Good-evenin','  and  off  he 
goes.  It's  curious,  it  really  is." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly,  and,  rising,  went 
into  the  house,  there  perhaps  to  reflect  on  the 
unaccountable  conduct  of  this  otherwise  ordi 
nary  young  man,  leaving  his  daughter  to  her 
own  unuttered  thoughts,  as  she  sat  out  upon 
the  veranda  and  watched  the  stars  "  come  one 
by  one." 


II. 


IT  was  a  very  quiet,  rather  out-of-the-way 
part  of  the  city,  although  it  lay  near  its  heart. 
The  bustling  "docks"  were  not  far  off;  great 
factories  were  near;  only  a  couple  of  blocks 
away  began  the  shop-bordered  and  principal 
street  where  the  main  line  of  the  street-cars 
ran,  where  the  great  hotels  stood,  where  omni 
buses,  carriages,  wagons,  carts,  rumbled  and 
rattled  from  early  morning  till  late  at  night, 
and  where  at  least  half  the  population,  it 
seemed,  within  that  time  passed  up  and  down. 
In  this  comparatively  deserted  quarter  grass 
grew  in  the  cracks  in  the  sidewalks  and  along 
the  curbstones  in  many  places.  There  were 
even  scattered  trees  in  the  streets,  some  of 
them  thriving  and  with  spreading  branches ; 
others  but  the  dry  skeletons  of  what  they  had 
been. 

The  mild  spring  evening  was  just  closing  in, 
and  the  stars  were  just  beginning  to  show,  like 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          231 

saffron-drops  on  the  dark  violet  sky,  as  Sack- 
ett  walked  along  Hyphen  Street  toward  Stark 
weather's  house,  which  stood  well  toward  the 
uptown  border  of  this  part  of  the  city.  The 
neighborhood  itself  was  still ;  the  bell  of  a 
locomotive  running  along  a  street  three  blocks 
off,  even  if  it  did  not  have  a  pastoral  tinkle, 
was  not  at  all  unmusical.  Only  that,  and  now 
and  then  the  quick  whistle  of  a  tug  in  the  har 
bor,  or  the  deep-throated  roar  of  a  propeller  as 
she  rounded  in  from  the  Lake,  broke  the  si 
lence.  The  time,  the  place,  were  conducive  to 
reverie,  and  there  was  plenty  in  Sackett's  head 
and  heart  to  furnish  material  for  that  pastime. 
He  was  not  given  to  introspection.  He  took 
his  psychological  conditions  very  much  as  a 
more  sophisticated  and  more  complex  person 
might  take  the  warmth  of  sudden  sunshine  or 
the  coolness  of  an  up-springing  breeze.  But  a 
man  cannot  help  but  think  when  he  is  troubled, 
eager,  anxious,  in  love — for  moments  perhaps 
over-bold,  for  minutes  sunk  in  fear. 

And  Sackett  thought,  as  he  walked  uncon 
scious  almost  of  where  he  was  going,  but  still 
with  a  decided  persistence  in  one  direction,  of 
what  he  only  was  ;  thought  of  Nettie  and  of 
all  she  was  ;  reflected  upon  their  differing  con- 


232  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

ditions,  and,  in  the  lucid  and  usual  manner  of 
lovers  in  such  strait,  fancied  how  different 
things  would  be  if  they  were  only — otherwise. 
Not  that  he  was  not  a  fellow  of  pluck  and  re 
source.  But  he  was  quite  overcome  with  his 
own  audacity  in  dreaming  in  such  way  of  the 
daughter  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lone  Star  and 
the  owner  of  one-sixteenth  of  that  boat — he, 
whose  father  had  been,  at  most,  a  wheels 
man  on  the  old  brig  "  James  and  Jane,"  and 
who  had  died  at  thirty,  leaving  his  mother 
and  him  in  poverty — he,  who  in  his  boyhood 
had  "  taken  to  the  Lakes  "  that  he  might  aid  in 
fighting  the  want  he  knew  so  well,  and  who  had 
learned  what  little  books  had  taught  him  only 
at  the  city's  winter  schools  and  in  the  scant 
hours  in  the  dim  forecastle.  Why,  the  thing 
was  ridiculous.  What  would  Nettie  herself 
think  of  such  presumption  ?  Hadn't  he  better 
stop  right  where  he  was — give  up  the  little  un 
reasonable  hope  that  now  whispered  to  him  to 
persevere — turn  the  other  way  and  walk  down 
Hyphen  Street  instead  of  up  it  ?  But  he  had 
such  an  excellent  excuse  for  going  to  see  her 
to-night — was  ever  lover  without  one  ? — for  he 
had  the  song,  in  a  roll,  in  his  hand.  What  was 
the  harm  of  going  on  ?  Undoubtedly  he  would 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE  233 

find  the  Captain  at  home.  But  suppose  Stark 
weather  did  run  on  about  "  good  years  "  and 
"  bad  years "  on  the  Lakes,  and  condemned, 
right  and  left,  new  things  as  troublesome  to 
peace  and  prosperity  ;  still  could  he  not  watch 
Nettie  sitting  quietly  in  the  twilight ;  and  — 
really,  it  wasn't  worth  while  to  turn  back  after 
he  had  walked  so  far.  And  so  he  held  on  his 
way,  a  disturbed,  doubtful,  downhearted,  yet — • 
for  was  there  not  that  little,  rather  impertinent, 
whispering  hope ? — afar  from  despairing  and  a 
decidedly  eager  young  man. 

As  he  came  near  the  house  he  could  see  that 
Nettie  was  sitting  alone  on  the  veranda. 

He  opened  the  gate  absently,  but  briskly 
made  his  way  up  the  walk.  Perhaps  he  might 
have  a  word  with  her  before  the  Captain  ap 
peared.  She  did  not  rise  to  greet  him,  and  he 
stood  with  his  arms  on  the  railing. 

"  Father's  gone  out,"  she  said. 

His  heart  sank,  then  gave  a  great  leap,  then 
stood  still. 

"  Gone  out  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,  gone  up  to  see  Mr.  Stoke  at  his 
house,"  she  said.  "  He  is  troubled  about  what 
he  has  heard  about  his  not  being  captain.  It's 
nonsense,  I  tell  him.  I  know  it's  nonsense." 


234  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Sackett. 

"  But  he  says,"  continued  Nettie,  "  that  if  he 
oughtn't  to  be  captain  any  longer — oughtn't  to 
be  trusted  with  the  boat  and  valuable  cargoes 
— he  oughtn't ;  and  so  he  has  made  a  matter  of 
conscience  of  it,  and  he  has  gone  to  have  a  long 
talk  with  Mr.  Stoke — you  know  Stoke  &  Pogis 
own  her,  except,"  this  with  a  little  pride,  "  our 
share — and  tell  him  all  he  thinks,  and,"  she  had 
not  failed  to  see  the  roll  he  held  in  his  hand, 
"  is  that  the  music  ?  Do  come  up  and  sit 
down.  I'd  like  to  look  at  it.  Father'll  be  in 
soon." 

He  mounted  the  two  or  three  steps  and 
stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  supporting 
posts  of  the  veranda.  She  took  the  song, 
opened  it,  and  said,  quickly  : 

"  Oh,  how  good  of  you !  I  thank  you  so 
much.  Let's  go  in  and  try  it  right  away." 
But  she  did  not  stir,  and  neither  did  he  move 
from  where  he  was. 

"  Won't  you  come  ?  "  she  asked,  still  not 
moving. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  for  a  moment  they 
stood  silently  looking  at  each  other. 

Now  was  his  time.  But  where  was  his  cour 
age  ?  And  where  were  the  words,  the  phrases, 


A  FRESH- WATER  ROMANCE          235 

that  lie  had  conned  and  studied — the  words  in 
which  should  mingle  expression  of  humility, 
fear,  ardor,  hope,  devotion,  courage,  love  as 
true  as  any  the  world  had  ever  known?  Gone, 
lost  in  a  bewildering,  vanishing  haze.  He  did 
not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"There's  something,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I'd 
like  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Nettie.  May  I  ?  " 

"  Me  !  Why  not  ?  "  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him  with  that  perfect  air  of  surprised  curiosity 
that  a  woman  can  best  assume  when  she  knows 
exactly  what  she  may  expect. 

"  I  know  you  won't  like  it,"  he  said.  "  Not 
that  it's  anything  a  fellow  shouldn't  say,  or  a 
girl  shouldn't  be  willing  to  hear,  for  that  mat 
ter.  I've  tried  to  say  it  for  a  long  time — not 
that  there's  any  reason  why  I  should  say  it— 
or  that  I  expect  it  to  lead  to  anything — 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  as  he  paused 
as  if  to  gather  and  choose  his  words.  You 
don't  know  how  interested  I  am." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  her  ear 
nestly  and  steadily,  and  leaning  a  little  for 
ward  so  that  she  shrank  back,  as  one  might 
who  had  raised  a  spirit  mightier  than  it  was 
supposed  the  simple  spell  could  evoke. 

"  I  have  got  my  mate's  certificate.     There  it 


236  A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 

is,"  and  he  pulled  it  from  his  pocket,  "  and  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  owe  you — and 
him — and — to  thank  you — and  to — "  and  he 
paused  in  actual  anguish.  There  was  a  pitiful, 
pleading  look  in  his  eyes — a  rhetoric  beyond 
all  eloquence  of  speech. 

"  I  don't  think,"  she  said,  slowly,  with  eyes 
a  little  downcast,  "that  you  are  telling  me 
much.  I  thought "  and  she,  too,  paused. 

"  You  thought  ?  "  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  "  that  you  were  — 
going  to  say  something — that — don't  thank  me 
—you've  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  and  she 
took  the  certificate  from  his  hand  and  held  it 
listlessly  and  without  looking  at  it :  "  Not  a 
thing — I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  some 
thing  that  meant  something — a  great  deal " 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  that  I  want  to  say,"  he 
replied,  excitedly,  "a  great  deal  to  me — if  I 
dared — if  I  only  dared,"  and  he  paused  again. 

"  What,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  quickly, 
and  for  the  smallest  fraction  of  an  instant,  in 
which  it  is  possible  for  a  girl  to  look  a  dozen 
things  at  once,  her  voice  sinking  a  little  in 
spite  of  valorous  effort  that  it  should  hold  its 
own,  "  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

"You." 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          237 

"  Of  me !     Am  I  so  frightful  ?  " 

"Nettie,"  and  as  he  drew  near  to  her  she 
did  not  draw  away.  "  Nettie,"  and  he  drew 
nearer  to  her,  and  still  she  did  not  stir.  "Net 
tie,  will  you  let  me  say  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"It's  all  right,"  shouted  Starkweather  from 
the  gate.  "  I'm  a  fool,"  he  cried,  as  he  stormed 
up  the  walk,  "  a  downright  fool.  Pack  up  a 
bag  for  me,  I'm  off  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  It 
was  only  some  of  that  dock  talk.  Why  Stoke'd 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  never'd  thought 
of  such  a  thing ;  and  Pogis  said — Oh,  you're 
not  alone." 

He  brought  up  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and 
gazed  with  a  puzzled  expression  at  the  pair  be 
fore  him,  for  even  to  his  eyes  it  was  evident 
that  something  unusual  had  happened. 

"No,  Captain  Starkweather,"  said  Sackett, 
firmly,  "  I'm  here  and  I  want  to  see  you." 

"  Sorry  to  have  missed  your  call,"  said  the 
Captain,  genially ;  "  but  you're  not  goin'  yet. 
Sit  down  for  a  while." 

"  You  don't  exactly  understand  me ;  I've 
something  important  to  say  to  you." 

"  Oh,    you    have,    have    you,"    said   Stark- 


238  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

weather,  blankly,  and  evidently  at  a  loss  how 
to  act. 

"You've  got  to  know  it  some  time,  and  I 
don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  know  it  now.  I've 
asked  Nettie  to  marry  me,  and  she  has  said 
that  she  would." 

"  No  ?  "     And  the  Captain  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  I  know  I'm  poor  and  she  is  rich,  that  I'm 
nobody  and  she's  somebody ;  but  I'm  not  al 
ways  going  to  be  that,  and  if  she'll  wait,  and 
she  says  she  will " 

"  And  you  say — think  this  all  right  ?  "  said 
the  old  man,  looking  at  the  girl. 

"I  think  it  is  the  best  thing  in  all  the 
world,"  she  answered,  proudly,  "and  if  he 
hadn't  asked  me  I  should  have  asked  him,  and 
I'm  not  sure  but  I  did." 

"  It's  rather  sudden,"  said  Starkweather, 
doubtfully,  "  and  I  don't  exactly  know " 

"  I  do,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  it  isn't  sudden. 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  been  always.  And  you 
don't  mind  ?  "  she  added,  beseechingly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  repeated  her  father,  help 
lessly. 

"  Dave  isn't  rich,  but  he  will  be  some  day, 
and  now  he's  mate  the  Lone  Star  '11  take  care 
of  all  of  us.  You  were  poor — poorer  than  he 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          239 

—when  you  and  mother  were  married,  you've 
told  me,  and  why  should  it  make  any  differ 
ence  with  us  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I've  any  real  objection  if 
you  haven't,"  said  Starkweather,  slowly.  "I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  more  worldly  views, 
but  I  haven't.  I  haven't  had  many  views  but 
your  happiness,  and  if  you  say  it  must  be,  why, 
I  s'pose  it  must." 

"  It  must,"  commanded  the  girl,  authorita 
tively. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  then  we'd 
better  call  it  concluded  and  be  done  with  it. 
There's  my  hand,"  he  said,  turning  to  Sackett ; 
"  I  like  your  principles  and  I  don't  mind  your 
prospects,  and  I  guess  you'll  make  her  happy 
if  you  can." 

"  I'll  try,"  answered  the  young  man,  simply. 

Starkweather  glanced  at  the  two,  neither  of 
whom  sat  down,  and  there  seemed  something 
almost  questioning  in  his  look  and  attitude. 

"I  guess,"  he  said,  at  length,  "I'll  just  step 
inside  for  a  moment." 

Somewhat  later,  when  Nettie  entered  the 
house,  she  found  her  f ather  smoking  vigorously, 
and  evidently  pondering  upon  some  subject 
deeply.  She  had  kissed  him  good-night,  and 


240  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

was  leaving  the  room  before  he  spoke.  When 
he  did,  it  was  with  something  of  an  air  of  ab 
straction,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  has 
only  succeeded  in  convincing  himself  of  an  as 
tounding  fact  after  mature  deliberation.  He 
rested  the  hand  that  held  his  pipe  upon  his 
knee  and  rubbed  the  other  slowly  over  his 
chin ;  the  words  came  slowly,  as  if  even  now 
he  were  not  quite  ready  to  commit  himself  to 
an  open  avowal  of  what  on  further  reflection 
might  appear  to  him  different. 

"  Do  you  know,  Nettie,  I  don't  half  believe 
that  young  fellow  used  to  come  to  see  me  after 
all." 

She  had  kissed  him  once,  but  returning  she 
threw  her  arms  wildly  around  his  neck,  hug 
ging  him  to  her,  and  kissing  him  a  score  of 
times. 


ni. 


WHEN  Sackett  came  on  watch  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  the  Lone  Star,  bound  from  Buf 
falo  to  Chicago,  was  on  Lake  Erie,  about  forty 
miles  to  the  southward  and  eastward  of  Pointe 
Pelee  Island.  The  wind  was  strong  from 
W.S.W.  and  was  increasing.  A  considerable 
sea  had  risen.  The  night  was  clear.  The  stars, 
seen  through  the  wind-swept  space,  shone 
brightly  and  seemed  strangely  near.  Now  and 
then  a  scouting  cloud  started  above  the  horizon 
and  advanced  swiftly.  On  either  hand,  and  even 
ahead,  could  be  seen  the  green  and  red  signal 
lights  of  sail  vessels — the  lights  of  some  grain- 
laden  fleet  "bound down  "  from  Chicago.  They 
had  the  wind  free,  and  as  one  of  them  passed 
swiftly,  and  not  far  away,  it  could  be  seen  that 
she  was  carrying  all  sail.  Sackett  ordered  the 
man,  far  forward  on  the  promenade  deck,  to 
keep  a  sharp  lookout,  and  he  himself  mounted 
to  the  hurricane  deck  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
pilot-house.  There  were  two  men  at  the  wheel. 
16 


242  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

He  glanced  in  at  the  compass.  The  propeller 
was  on  her  course,  N.W.  by  N.  f  N.  She  ran 
along,  and  as  signal  lights  farther  up  the  lake 
were  visible,  he  thought  of  "  checking  down  " 
his  vessel,  but  he  did  not. 

Now  the  clouds  came  on  in  skirmishing 
squads.  The  wind  shifted  three  points — to  W. 
by  N.  The  sea  was  rising  ;  it  was  vexed  by  the 
changing  wind.  Vigilant  as  Sackett  was,  with 
the  acquired  and  ever-present  vigilance  of  a  true 
sailor  when  on  duty — with  sight  and  hearing 
keenly  if  unconsciously  alert — he  really  could 
not  keep  his  thoughts  from  wandering.  Was 
not  the  prosperous  season  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  was  not  the  time — the  coming  Christmas — 
not  far  away,  when  Nettie  and  he  were  to  be 
come  "  shipmates  "  for  the  voyage  around  the 
world  of  their  joint  lives  ?  and 

"  Green  light  011  the  port  bow,"  sung  out  the 
lookout,  "  close  aboard." 

With  a  glance  Sackett  saw  it.  It  flashed 
quickly  into  plain  sight,  not  many  lengths  away 
—not  four  points  off  the  Star's  port  bow. 

"  Starboard — hard  a  starboard  !  "  shouted 
Sackett. 

"  Starboard,"  answered  a  man  at  the  wheel, 
and  the  Star  swung  to  port.  It  was  rather  a 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          243 

close  thing ;  but  the  big  "  fore-and-after,"  now 
showing  a  torchlight,  rushed  at  almost  a  ten- 
knot  speed  across  the  bows  of  the  propeller, 
and  the  propeller  passed  saf elj  under  the  stern 
of  the  sail  vessel. 

Sackett  glanced  at  his  signal  lights.  They 
were  all  right. 

"  That  vessel  must  have  changed  her  course," 
he  thought;  "why,  what  fool  could  guess? 
Her  jibs  must  have  hid  her  red  light  or  we 
would  have  seen  it  before  ?  She  couldn't  have 
kept  a  good  lookout." 

The  propeller,  back  on  her  course,  held 
steadily  on  at  her  usual  speed.  All  lights  to  be 
seen  were  now  distant  and  broad  off  either  bow. 
There  were  none  ahead. 

How  beautiful  Nettie  had  looked  as  he  hur 
ried  away,  not  an  hour  before  the  propeller 
started  on  this  trip.  Even  though  the  wind 
was  still  increasing  he  could  see  that  the  clouds 
had  thickened  and  were  in  closer  array  to  the 
northward  and  westward  ;  all  was  safe,  and  he 
could  not  but  think  of  her  as  he  now  stood  gaz 
ing  ahead.  Unconsciously  he  pictured  to  him 
self  the  room  in  which  he  generally  saw  her — 
its  comfortable  look — its  home  look — to  which 
she  added  so  much  and — the  door  opening  into 


244  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

the  dining-room  was  at  the  end  of  the  piano, 
against  which  she  leaned  for  a  moment.  How 
many  panels  had  that  door  ?  There  certainly 
were  two  at  the  top.  But  were  there  two  at  the 
bottom?  He  could  not  tell.  This  puzzled 
him.  And— 

One  of  the  deck-hands  had  come  from  aft  out 
on  the  promenade  deck.  Sackett  seemed  to 
hesitate  for  a  moment  as  he  looked  at  him. 

"  Come  up  here,"  he  said  to  him. 

The  man  mounted  to  the  "  hurricane  roof  " 
and  stood  silent.  He  was  an  old  man  whom 
Dave  had  known  a  long  time.  When  Sackett 
first  shipped,  as  a  "  boy,"  on  the  "  Yellow 
stone,"  the  Englishman  was  deck-hand  on  the 
steamer,  and  as  deck-hand  the  man  had  "  fol 
lowed  the  Lakes  "  ever  since.  Drink  had  been 
his  curse  and  had  kept  him  down. 

Sackett  glanced  ahead  and  looked  around. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mason?"  he 
asked. 

"  Looks  like  a  nasty  night,  sir,"  said  Mason, 
an  old  salt-water  sailor.  "  And,"  he  added, 
contemptuously,  "  there's  no  sea-room  on  these 
puddles." 

There  was  a  rumble  amid  the  distant  clouds. 
At  last  they  seemed  to  march  in  battalions  and 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          245 

with  regulated  step.  The  wind  had  died  away 
a  little. 

"  It  will  be  nothing,"  said  Sackett,  "  I'll  wait 
awhile.  He  hasn't  had  half  a  dozen  hours  sleep 
in  the  last  forty-eight.  And  he'll  want  to  take 
her  up  the  river.  But — stay  where  you  are, 
Mason." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mason,  and  he  turned  and 
stood  looking  off  to  windward. 

The  wind  fell  away  more  and  more.  There 
was  not  a  signal  light  in  sight. 

Sackett  stood  gazing  steadily  ahead,  absent 
ly,  as  one  who  did  not  know  him  or  his  kind 
might  have  supposed.  How  wonderful  —  so 
ran  his  disjointed  thoughts — it  all  was.  Won 
derful  that  she,  the  spoiled  child  of  the  pros 
perous  Captain  and  owner  of  a  sixteenth  of  the 
Star,  should  have  placed  the  soft  hand  that  so 
many  had  sought  in  his  hard  palm.  Like 
many  another  good  fellow — like  all  good  fel 
lows,  who  never  quite  get  over  the  idea  that  a 
pretty  woman  is  a  being  above  and  beyond 
earth,  sacred,  and,  if  loved,  to  be  loved  with 
the  feeling  that  consecrates  its  object — like  all 
good  fellows  in  such  cases,  he  felt  that  Nettie 
was  to  be  tenderly  adored  and  carefully  guard 
ed,  or  otherwise  she  would  spread  her  wings 


246  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

and  take  flight  to  the  native  region  in  which 
she  could  only  be  at  home.  That  she  even 
could  think  of  him  seemed  a  sort  of  divine 
condescension  that  filled  him  with  ineffable 
gratitude ;  that  she  said  that  she  loved  him 
amazed  him  with  a  sort  of  dazed  ecstasy  that 
he  could  neither  analyze  nor  find  words  to  ex 
press.  And  then  her  money  !  It  was  both  a 
shame  and  a  delight  to  him  ;  a  shame  that  he, 
who  had  nothing  but  his  chief  mate's  license, 
should  receive  so  much  from  her ;  a  delight — 
because  it  must  prove  that  she  loved  him  when, 
against  all  self-interest,  she  gave  so  much  to 
one  so  poor.  But  in  this  thought  there  was 
much  that  was  inspiriting.  Here  was  some 
thing  that  a  man  might  accomplish.  He  swore 
gently  to  himself  that  he  would  own  the  Star 
—  all  except  the  sixteenth  —  before  some  in 
definite,  not  far-away  time.  He  would  save 
money.  He  w^ould  make  money.  He  would 
own  a  half-dozen  propellers  better  than  the 

Star.     He  would 

The  heavens  flashed  and  crashed.  Its  artil 
lery  was  at  last  wheeled  into  action.  The  roar 
and  flame  were  incessant.  The  rain  fell  in  al 
most  compact  mass.  It  beat  down  the  crests 
of  the  mounting  sea,  threshed  them  out  as  flails 


A  FRESH-  WATER  ROMANCE  247 

thresh  out  and  flatten  unbound  sheaves.  But 
the  long  roll  of  the  waves  swept  along.  It  was 
now  blowing  more  than  "  half  a  gale  of  wind." 

"  Steady  on  your  course,"  shouted  Sackett  to 
the  men  at  the  wheel.  "  Mason,  call  the  Cap 
tain.  Send  another  man  forward.  Come  back 
here  yourself." 

Mason  was  down  the  ladder  in  an  instant. 
In  a  minute  he  was  on  the  deck  again — the 
Captain  and  he. 

"  How's  she  heading  ?  "  asked  the  Captain, 
as  he  looked  forward  and  off  either  bow. 

"  Northwest  by  north,  three-quarters  north, 
sir,"  replied  Sackett. 

"  Keep  her  there." 

"Shall  we  sound  the  whistle?"  asked  Sac 
kett. 

"  There's  no  fog,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Lights  can't  be  seen  far,  sir." 

"  Sound  it,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  it  can  do 
no  harm." 

"  Sound  the  whistle,"  said  Sackett  to  Mason, 
and  its  first  warning  was  soon  heard. 

"  What's  her  speed?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  About  seven  miles,"  said  Sackett. 

"  Check  her  down  still  more,  but  give  her 
good  steerage  way." 


248  A   FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE 

Sackett  gave  the  order  to  the  engineer 
through  the  "  bells."  He  could  soon  tell  that 
the  boat  was  "slowed  down." 

Two  men  now  were  forward  on  the  promen 
ade-deck,  "  in  the  eyes  of  her,"  one  port,  the 
other  starboard. 

All  were  silent,  waiting,  watching,  listening. 
There  was  the  booming  thunder,  the  splinter 
ing  lightning,  the  roar  of  the  whistle  every 
minute,  the  hissing  of  the  trampling  rain,  the 
sound  of  the  wind,  sharp,  as  sweeping  along 
the  decks  it  was  cut  by  the  standing  rigging. 

"  I've  lost  my  nerve  this  trip,"  said  Stark 
weather  to  Sackett.  "  Perhaps  I'm  really  not 
fit  for  duty,"  he  added,  solemnly.  "Nothing 
must  happen  —  nothing  this  season.  I'd  be 
ruined.  They'd  say  I  was  to  blame." 

"  Nothing,"  began  Sackett 

"  Bright  light — and  red  and  green  close  on 
the  port  bow,"  yelled  one  of  the  men  forward. 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken  when  the 
three  lights  burst  into  plain  view. 

"  Back  her,"  shouted  Starkweather.  "Back 
her  strong." 

Sackett  signalled  the  engineer  to  stop — the 
engine  must  not  "catch  on  the  centre  " — then 
instantly  to  back.  The  order  was  immediately 


A   FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          249 

obeyed.  The  Star  was  "backing,"  "backing 
strong,"  when  a  huge,  dominating  mass,  about 
four  points  off  the  port  bow,  seemed  to  rise 
out  of,  to  detach  itself  from,  the  darkness  and 
the  obscuring  rain.  At  full  speed  apparently, 
a  large,  heavily  laden  propeller  came  down 
upon  the  Star.  The  crash  was  terrific.  The 
Star  was  struck  just  abaft  her  forward  port 
gangway.  The  force  of  the  blow  swung  her 
bow  to  starboard.  The  standing  rigging  gave 
way ;  running  rigging  parted ;  the  Star's  mast 
fell.  The  stranger  evidently  had  ported  just 
before  the  collision.  This  lessened  the  force 
of  the  blow  a  little.  As  it  was,  her  sharp  bow 
cut  into  the  Star's  side  almost  to  her  midship 
line.  The  engine  of  the  stranger  was  now 
"backing."  The  Star  was  "backing"  when 
struck.  The  vessels  quickly  drew  away  and 
lost  each  other  in  the  darkness. 

For  a  minute  all  was  confusion  on  the  Star. 
The  lookouts  rushed  aft;  the  engineer  had 
stopped  his  engine  and  hastened  up ;  the 
"  watch  below  "  hurried  on  deck. 

The  Star  lost  her  headway,  "fell  off,"  and 
was  soon  rolling  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

"  Go  below,"  said  the  Captain  to  Sackett ; 
"and  see  how  bad  she's  hurt." 


250  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

Sackett  swung  himself  off  the  hurricane 
deck.  He  ran  aft.  He  could  see  that  the 
port  side  was  crushed  in ;  he  could  hear  the 
water  pouring  into  the  hold.  He  knew  that 
nothing  could-  be  done — that  the  Star  must 
sink.  He  hurried  back  ;  he  could  not  see  the 
Captain.  The  men  had  rushed  to  the  two 
boats  hanging  at  the  davits.  The  second  mate 
headed  those  about  to  lower  the  starboard 
boat ;  Mason  was  with  the  others,  and  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  held  on  to  his  rope,  even 
after  it  began  to  run  through  the  block. 

"  Lower  away,"  shouted  some  one  to  Mason ; 
"  there's  a  hole  in  her  bigger'n  a  house." 

"  Quick,"  yelled  the  second  mate,  "  if  you 
ever  want  to  see  daylight  again." 

All  discipline,  for  the  moment  at  least,  was 
really  lost.  Sackett  saw  this  as  he  reached  the 
hurricane  deck. 

The  clamor  of  voices  ceased.  Above  the 
swash  of  the  waves,  above  the  swish  of  the 
rain  along  the  deck,  above  all  the  tumult  of 
the  storm,  Sackett  could  hear  the  shout  of  the 
Captain  as  he  stood  between  the  boats  on 
either  side : 

"  Stop  !     Hold  on  everything  !  " 

In    an    instant    Sackett    was    by  his    side. 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          251 

Starkweather  stood  with  a  revolver  in  his 
hand,  and  as  he  turned  from  port  to  starboard, 
he  shouted  to  the  men  at  either  boat : 

"Leave  the  ship,  would  you!  A  pack  of 
cowards !  I'll  shoot  the  first  man  that  stirs  to 
lower  a  boat." 

"  Captain  Starkweather,"  said  the  second 
mate,  "  we'd  stand  by  you  and  the  Star  as  long- 
as  any  living  men,  but  it's  no  use.  She's 
bound  to  sink." 

"  Bound  to  sink !  "  shouted  Starkweather. 
"  She  mustn't  sink.  She  shan't  sink." 

"  We'll  do  what  we  can,  or  we'll  sink  with 
her,"  said  Mason,  resolutely,  taking  a  turn  of 
the  rope  he  held  around  a  belay  ing-pin.  "  I 
don't  want  no  better  mourner 'n  the  old  Star 
at  my  funeral."  He  looked  around,  and  as  he 
saw  Sackett  he  gave  the  rope  another  and 
quicker  turn. 

For  an  instant  nothing  was  said.  The  power  of 
command  was  arrayed  against  the  determination 
of  men  who  knew  that  in  the  boats  lay  safety. 

"  They're  right,  sir,"  said  Sackett.  "  She'll 
sink  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  You!  "  shouted  the  Captain,  turning  fierce 
ly  upon  Sackett — "  you  !  I'm  captain  of  this 
boat— I'll " 


252  A   FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

A  heavy  wave  struck  the  port  side.  The 
vessel  rolled  to  starboard.  She  righted  with  a 
sudden  jerk.  The  men  clung  to  the  ropes  and 
to  the  rails  on  either  side.  Starkweather  was 
thrown  to  the  deck,  his  head  striking  heavily. 
Sackett  staggered  but  did  not  fall.  Instantly 
he  was  beside  the  Captain,  and  sought  to  aid 
him.  But  Starkweather  did  not  stir.  Sackett 
and  Mason  lifted  him  to  his  feet. 

The  Captain  was  powerless  and  uncon 
scious. 

"  The  old  man  " — the  captain  of  a  vessel,  no 
matter  how  young,  is  always  "  the  old  man  "  to 
his  crew — "  shan't  go  down  if  all  the  rest  do," 
said  Mason. 

Together  they  carried  Starkweather  to  the 
vessel's  side. 

"  Lively  now,"  shouted  Sackett.  "  Get 
clear  of  her  before  she  sinks." 

Mason  rose  up  to  take  an  oar.  The  boat 
rolled.  He  was  jerked  overboard.  A  wave 
swept  the  boat  away  from  the  vessel.  Mason 
snatched  at  a  rope  trailing  over  the  propeller's 
side.  It  seemed  to  render  slowly,  as  if  through 
some  block  above.  He  tried  to  climb  it  hand 
over  hand — to  keep  his  head  above  water. 

"  Good-by,  Dave,"  he  shouted  to  Sackett,  as 


A   FRESH- WATER  ROMANCE          253 

if  they  were  still  man  and  boy  on  the  Yellow 
stone.  "  It's  no  use." 

The  rope  fell  over  the  side.  The  propeller 
lurched  to  port,  pitched,  and  went  down.  The 
struggling  boat  half  filled,  but  did  not  sink. 

"Back!  We  may  save  him  yet,"  shouted 
Sackett. 

They  rowed  back.  They  lay  upon  their 
oars.  With  every  flash  of  the  lightning  they 
strained  their  eyes  to  see  what  they  might  see. 
They  shouted.  They  heard  nothing  but  the 
rumble  of  the  thunder,  the  wash  of  the  waves. 
The  old  deck-hand  and  the  oldest  propeller  on 
the  Lakes  had  gone  down  together. 


IV. 

THE  winter  was  severe.  The  Lake  was 
covered  with  ice.  Hundreds  were  busy  upon 
it,  sawing  it  out  in  large  blocks.  These  were 
loaded  upon  sleds  which  strong  horses  dragged 
slowly  around  the  light-house  to  the  city, 
where  it  was  stowed  in  huge  ice-houses. 
Fishermen,  through  holes  cut  in  the  ice,  plied 
a  craft,  a  "  gentle  craft,"  of  which  old  "Walton 
never  dreamed.  You  could  see  them  coming, 
going,  away  out  upon  the  ice  in  the  dull  winter 
light.  The  snow  lay  thick  everywhere — 011 
wharves,  on  the  great  bulky  elevators,  even  on 
the  vessels  moored  for  the  winter  in  the  har 
bor.  Only  occasionally  could  a  living  thing 
be  discovered  on  any  of  them.  The  docks 
were  deserted.  The  silence  there  was  seldom 
broken,  and  then  only  by  slight  sounds  which 
appeared  to  come  from  far  away  like  echoes. 
Where  there  is  human  neighborhood  and  the 
sense  of  human  presence,  there  is  no  place 
within  city  bounds  where,  it  seems,  at  times, 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          255 

that  desolation  is  so  complete,  as  the  harbor 
and  wharves  of  a  winter-bound  port  upon  the 
great  Lakes. 

Up  at  the  Starkweather  cottage  the  rigid 
season  held  sway  with  equal  rigor.  As  Nettie 
sat  looking  out  of  the  window  this  afternoon, 
she  could  see  the  leafless  tops  of  the  bushes  in 
the  yard  in  stalky  stiffness  above  the  snow. 
The  branches  of  the  lilac-tree  were  encased  in 
frozen  sleet ;  the  small  evergreens  were  weight 
ed  with  ice.  The  gravel  walk  lay  as  if  its  peb 
bles  were  embedded  in  hardened  cement. 

It  was  a  sad  house.  There  was  the  sense 
that  there  might  be  other  calamity  impending 
and  imminent,  even  where  calamity  had  lately 
struck  so  suddenly  and  so  heavily.  In  his  room 
lay  Starkweather,  senseless,  ever  since  he  fell 
upon  the  deck  of  the  Lone  Star.  He  might 
never  be  better.  But  there  was  one  relief,  he 
knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened  ;  another, 
that  he  did  not  suffer  pain.  These  things  the 
doctors  said,  and  these  things  were  good. 

Sackett  stood  silently  behind  Nettie  as  she 
sat  looking  out. 

"  And  last  year  it  was  all  so  different,"  she 
said,  as  she  looked  sadly  up  at  him. 

"Perhaps,"  he  replied,  with  at  least  some 


256  A   FRESH-  WATER  ROMANCE 

show  of  confidence,  "  next  year — or  it  may  be 
sooner — it  will  all  be  as  different  in  another 
way." 

"  Then,"  went  on  the  girl,  disregarding  what 
he  said,  "  father  was  well  and  strong,  and  she 
—the  Star — hadn't  sunk,  and  there  wasn't  the 
lawsuit;  and" — and  with  a  girl's  capricious 
wilfulness,  taking  a  strange  delight  in  affecting 
to  taste  a  bitterness  which  she  knows  does  not 
exist — "  and  you  loved  me." 

"  Nettie ! "  half-exclaimed  the  young  man. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  was  answering  his  tone, 
not  his  speech,  for  she  knew  well  enough  what 
he  would  have  said  had  he  said  more.  "  Every 
thing  else  has  changed  so  much.  And  the 
money- — the  lawsuit 

"  Nettie,"  he  said,  and  he  held  his  hands  un 
der  her  chin  and  looked  over  into  her  upturned 
eyes,  "  let  the  lawsuit  do  its  worst ;  your  money 
has  made  me  feel  awkward  and  ashamed  many 
a  time.  Lose  it,  and  you  will  be  like  many 
another  girl,  only  you  won't — won't  be  like  any 
one  in  all  the  world." 

She  laughed  contentedly  in  the  way  that 
women  will,  when  what  they  have  sought  to 
have  said  is  said  in  exactly  the  right  way  and 
as  they  expected  it  would  be. 


A  FRESH-WATER  ROMANCE  257 


But  father- 


"  When  is  it  to  be  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  mo 
ment. 

"  At  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow.  But  do  you 
really  think  it  will  be  successful  ?  "  she  asked, 
anxiously. 

Sackett  did  not  answer. 

"Even  if  it  is,"  she  continued,  "they  say 
that  he  will  think  and  feel  as  he  used  to  do." 

"  Yes.  " 

"  And  he'll  know  that  the  boat  is  gone,  and 
then  he'll  feel — you  know  how  he  felt  last 
spring — he'll  think  that  he  is  disgraced.  Then 
there's  the  lawsuit.  It  will  be  awful." 

"It  will  be  hard." 

"  But  there's  no  other  way  ?  " 

"  None.  I  must  go,  Nettie.  I  shall  come 
again  this  evening." 

Now,  at  noon,  the  operation  was  nearly 
ended. 

All  the  time  Nettie  had  been  in  the  room. 

"  I  will  hear  his  first  word,"  she  had  said,  for 
the  doctors  had  told  her  that  as  soon  as  the 
pressure  upon  the  brain  was  relieved  it  would 
instantly  resume  its  normal  functions. 

She  had  not  spoken,  scarcely  moved ;  the 
17 


258  A  FRESH- WATER  ROMANCE 

look  of  determination  in  her  face  was  one  of 
resolved  despair.  Sackett  stood  beside  her. 
His  expression  changed  often.  He  was  a  man, 
and  had  a  man's  revulsion  from  a  sick-room. 
He  had  not  a  woman's  courage  in  such  place — 
a  woman's  blessed  adaptation  to  all  such  scenes 
of  visible  suffering.  He  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  the  glistening,  torturing  instruments 
upon  the  table.  There  was  a  large  bowl  half 
filled  with  water,  and  over  its  edge  hung  a 
blood-stained  towel,  the  deeper  color  fading 
off  into  a  dull  yellow,  and  the  sight  sickened 
him. 

But  few  words  were  spoken.  The  physicians 
understood  each  other's  every  act.  Little  now 
remained  to  be  done. 

"  It  will  be  a  success,"  said  Doctor  Mayne, 
at  last,  confidently. 

Nettie  would  have  fallen  had  not  Sackett  sus 
tained  her.  Her  tears  came — there  had  been 
none  before.  The  arid  sands  of  sorrow  drank 
them  up,  and  now  there  was  gladness. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  Doctor  Mayne, 
"  stand  here.  Let  him  see  and  know  you  first." 

"  Leave  the  ship ! "  said  Starkweather, 
faintly.  "  I'll  shoot  the  first  man  that  stirs." 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE          259 

Then  she  took  her  father's  hand  and  smiled. 

"  Why,  Nettie,"  said  Starkweather,  "  is  there 
— is  there  something  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  said,  kneeling  on  a  low 
stool  by  his  side;  "you  are  not  well.  You 
must  let  me  take  care  of  you  until  you  are." 

"  Take  care  of  me  !  "  he  murmured,  with  just 
strength  enough  to  show  a  little  impatience ; 
and  then  in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  to  himself, 
"  bright  light,  and  red  and  green.  Why  didn't 
she  hear  us?  WTiy  didn't  she  port?  Why 
didn't  she  stop  and  back  ?  " 

"He  must  not  be  excited,"  said  Doctor 
Mayne,  "nor  made  tired,  nor  yet  allowed  to 
puzzle  and  wonder." 

"  Father,"  said  Nettie,  "  when  people  are 
sick  they  are  often  delirious,  you  know.  You'll 
be  all  well  again  soon." 

For  a  moment  the  Captain  did  not  speak 
"  If — if  it  had  been  real,"  said  Starkweather, 
"and  we'd  lost  the  boat,  I'd  never  have  held 
up  my  head  again." 

"  He  doesn't  know  that  the  Star  is  gone," 
she  whispered  to  Sackett,  who  bent  down  to 
listen  when  she  beckoned  to  him. 

"And  God  help  him,"  Sackett  said,  "he 
never  shall." 


260  A  FRESH- WATER  ROMANCE 

The  wedding  did  not  take  place  till  the  mid 
dle  of  the  next  spring.  Then  the  doctors  said 
that  Starkweather  was  as  well  as  he  ever  would 
be ;  then  the  lawsuit  had  been  decided,  and  the 
future  of  Nettie  and  Sackett  lay  before  them. 
It  was  not  a  particularly  brilliant  future,  for 
the  lawsuit  had  been  lost  and  all  except  the 
house  had  gone,  and  the  Captain,  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  never  would  be  in  command 
again  ;  but  they  were  not  unhappy. 

The  wedding  was  a  quiet  one.  It  took  place 
in  the  room  where  the  Captain  sat  day  after 
day.  There  were  but  few  present.  There  was 
no  wedding-trip,  of  course.  That,  they  said, 
would  come  some  other  time. 

And  all  through  the  season  there  was  a  mys 
tery  in  the  house — not  a  very  terrible  mystery, 
but  one  which  all  assisted  in  maintaining.  For 
the  Captain,  the  Lone  Star  made  her  trips  as 
regularly  as  usual,  and  marvellous  trips  they 
were,  or  you  would  think  so  if  you  heard  the 
talk  between  the  Captain  and  Nettie  and  Sack 
ett.  There  was  a  little  harmless  suppression, 
a  little  evasion  here  and  there,  and  certain 
newspapers  were  kept  carefully  away  from  the 
old  Captain.  And  the  most  of  what  was  said 
was  true,  except  that  the  Lone  Star  was  not 


A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE  261 

the  old  boat  at  all,  but  one  entirely  new  of 
which  Sackett  was  the  master. 

Nettie  is  sitting  reading  silently.  Sackett  is 
busy  at  the  table.  He  is  looking  at  the  draw 
ing  of  a  new  propeller- wheel,  in  which  Stark 
weather  and  he  have  great  faith.  Starkweather 
himself  is  watching  the  dancing  blaze  of  a  soft 
coal  fire  in  the  grate. 

"  If  it  had  been  real,"  he  says,  half  to  him 
self,  "if  she  had  been  lost,  I  should  have  gone 
down  with  her — I  couldn't  have  lived  dis 
graced." 

Neither  of  the  others  heed  him.  They  have 
heard  it  so  often  before. 

Then  Nettie  reads  aloud  from  the  book  of 
"  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  from  this  World  to 
That  which  is  to  Come,"  and  Sackett  lays 
down  the  drawing,  and  Starkweather  turns 
half  around  and  looks  at  her  as  she  reads  : 

"  Now,  as  they  were  going  along,  and  talking, 
they  espied  a  boy  feeding  his  father's  sheep. 
The  boy  was  in  very  mean  cloaths,  but  of  a  very 
fresh  and  well  -  favored  countenance ;  and  as 
he  sat  by  himself,  he  sung.  '  Hark,'  said  Mr. 
Great-heart,  '  to  what  the  Shepherd's  boy 
saith ; '  so  they  hearkened,  and  he  said  : — 


262  A  FRESH -WATER  ROMANCE 

'  He  that  is  down,  needs  fear  no  Fall ; 

He  that  is  low,  no  Pride  : 

He  that  is  humble,  ever  shall 

Have  God  to  be  his  Guide. 

'  I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much  : 
And,  Lord,  Contentment  still  I  crave, 
Because  thou  savest  such. 

1  Fulness  to  such,  a  Burden  is, 

That  go  on  Pilgrimage  : 
Here  little,  and  hereafter  Bliss, 
Is  best  from  Age  to  Age.' 

"  Then  said  their  Guide,  '  Do  you  hear  him  ? 
I  will  dare  to  say,  that  this  boy  lives  a  merrier 
life,  and  wears  more  of  that  herb  called  Hearts 
ease  in  his  bosom,  than  he  that  is  clad  in  silk 
and  velvet.' " 


THE    END   OF    THE    BEGIN 
NING 


THE    END    OF   THE   BEGIN 
NING 


A  FANTASY 


"  CITY  OP  NEW  YORK. 
"April  10,  1887. 


«  T^vEAE  SIK  :   It  is  with  some  hesitation 

\-J  that  I  venture  to  trespass  upon  your 
valuable  time,  knowing  as  I  do  that  the  de 
mands  of  clients,  of  constituents,  of  friends, 
are  so  exacting.  Still,  as  what  I  am  about  to 
ask  relates  to  a  matter  lying  very  near  my 
heart,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  A  young 
man  in  whom,  in  spite  of  the  usual  extrava 
gances  and  follies  of  youth,  I  discern  some 
promise  and  whom  I  hope,  for  his  own  sake 
and  from  my  friendship  for  his  excellent  father, 
dead  long  ago,  to  see  occupying  a  respectable 
position  in  the  community,  has,  with  the  heed- 


266        THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

lessness  peculiar  to  his  age,  involved  himself 
in  certain  difficulties  which,  although  at  pres 
ent  of  a  sufficiently  distressing  nature,  may,  I 
hope,  be  satisfactorily  overcome.  Knowing  so 
well  your  distinguished  abilities,  ripe  judgment, 
and  great  experience,  I  can  think  of  no  one  to 
whom  I  can,  in  this  critical  period  of  his  life, 
more  confidently  send  him  for  counsel,  instruc 
tion,  and  aid,  and  I  accordingly  commend  him 
to  you,  trusting  to  our  old  friendship  to  account 
for  and  excuse  my  somewhat  unusual  act. 
Though  what  I  ask  of  you  is  something  not 
usually  required  of  a  lawyer,  I  think  you  will 
understand  my  reason  for  thus  troubling  you. 
No  one  can  have  a  more  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  world  than  an  old  practitioner  like 
yourself,  and  what  you  may  say  must  fall  upon 
the  ears  of  youth  with  weighty  authority. 
Talk  to  him  as  you  would  to  your  son,  if  you 
had  one,  not  as  a  client,  and  I  shall  be  inex 
pressibly  indebted  to  you,  for  I  know  you  will 
lead  him  to  appreciate  the  serious  realities  of 
life,  which,  at  present,  he  is  so  disposed  to  dis 
regard. 

"  I  need  only  add  that  he  is  a  young  man  of 
some  fortune  and,  certainly,  by  birth  worthy  of 
much  consideration.  He  will  call  upon  you  in 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       267 

person  and  himself  explain  his  present  embar 
rassments. 

"  I  remain,  now  as  always, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

RICHARD  BEVINGTON. 
"  THE  HON.  JACOB  MASKELYNE, 
Oounsellor-a-tlaw, 

Number  —  William  Street, 
City  of  New  York." 

This  was  the  letter  that  the  Honorable 
Jacob  Maskelyne  read,  reread,  and  read  yet 
again.  Indeed,  not  content  with  its  repeated 
perusal,  he  turned  it  this  way  and  that,  looked 
at  it  upsidedown,  and  finally,  laying  it  upon 
the  table,  he  held  up  its  envelope  in  curi 
ous  study,  as  people  so  often  do  when  thus 
perplexed.  It  bore  the  common,  dull-red-two- 
cent  stamp  and  was  post-marked  the  day 
before.  Both  it  and  the  letter  were  apparent 
ly  as  much  matters  of  the  every-day  world  as 
a  jostle  on  the  side- walk.  Nevertheless,  the 
old  lawyer  was  puzzled — more  than  puzzled, 
although  he,  of  all  men  in  the  great,  wide 
awake  city,  would  in  popular  opinion  have 
been  thought  perhaps  the  very  last  to  be 
thus  at  fault.  If  millstones  were  to  be  worn 


268       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

as  monocles — if  there  was  any  seeing  what  the 
future  might  bring  forth — the  chances  of  a 
project,  the  risks  of  rise  or  fall  in  a  stock,  the 
hazards  of  a  corner  in  a  staple,  the  prospects 
of  a  party  or  of  a  partisan,  Jacob  Maskelyne 
would  be  regarded  as  the  man  of  men  for  the 
work.  But,  under  the  circumstances,  even  to 
him  this  letter  was  more  than  perplexing. 
Here,  on  this  spring  morning,  with  floods  of 
well-authenticated  sunshine  pouring  into  every 
nook  and  corner,  dissipating  every  mystery  of 
shadow  and,  it  might  seem,  every  shadow  of 
mystery — here,  in  his  office,  bricked  in  by  the 
unimaginative  octavos  of  the  law — those  hide 
bound  volumes,  heavy  literature  of  all  things 
most  amazingly  matter  of  fact;  here,  in  the 
eighteen  hundred  and  eighty  seventh  year  of 
the  Christian  era,  in  the  one  hundred  and 
eleventh  year  of  the  Republic,  he  had  received 
a  letter  from  his  old  guardian,  whom,  when  he 
himself  was  not  more  than  twenty,  he  remem 
bered,  walking  about,  a  feeble  old  man  with 
many  an  almost  Revolutionary  peculiarity  in 
speech  and  manner,  and  whose  funeral  he,  with 
the  heads  and  scions  of  most  of  the  first  fami 
lies  of  the  town,  had  attended  full  twenty-five 
years  ago.  It  certainly  was  enough  to  bewil- 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       269 

der  any  one.  He  again  took  up  the  letter.  It 
was  unquestionably  in  old  Bevington's  best 
style,  courtly  enough,  but  a  trifle  pompous. 
Had  it  not  been  for  its  true  tone  he  would  un 
doubtedly  have  thought  the  thing  a  hoax  and 
immediately  have  dismissed  it  from  his  mind. 
He  touched  a  hand-bell,  and  in  response  a 
young  man — a  very  prosaic  young  man — over 
whose  black  clothes  the  gray  of  age  had  begun 
to  gather,  appeared. 

"  Bring  me  the  letters  received  of  the  year 
eighteen  sixty — letter  B,"  said  the  lawyer, 
sharply. 

That  was  the  year  in  which  his  father's  estate 
had  been  finally  settled,  and  he  knew  that 
there  would  be  many  examples  of  his  guardian's 
handwriting  in  the  correspondence  of  that  time. 

The  clerk  soon  returned  with  a  tin  case  and 
laid  it  on  the  table.  Mr.  Maskelyne  took  one 
from  among  the  many  papers  therein,  and,  strik 
ing  it  sharply  against  ,the  arm  of  his  chair,  to 
scatter  the  dust  that  invests  all  things  in  the 
garment  the  outfitter  Time  warrants  such  a 
perfect  fit,  he  spread  it  out  beside  the  letter  he 
had  just  read  with  such  blank  wonder. 

"  Identically  the  same,"  he  muttered.  "  No 
other  man  ever  made  an  e  like  that." 


270        THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

The  clerk  had  vanished  and  the  lawyer  was 
again  alone. 

He  glanced  once  more  at  the  mysterious 
missive,  and  then,  with  the  purposelessness  of 
abstraction,  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window. 
Nothing  caught  his  eye  but  the  sign-bedecked 
front  of  the  opposite  building  and  one  small 
patch  of  blue  sky — near,  gritty,  limestone  fact 
and  a  far-away  something  without  confine. 
Still,  amazed  as  he  was,  the  contagious  joy  of 
the  time  sensibly  affected  him. 

The  sparrows,  quarrelsome  gamins  of  the 
air,  for  the  time  reformed  by  honest  labor  into 
respectable  artisans,  upon  an  opposite  entabla 
ture,  in  garrulous  amity  plied  their  small,  nest- 
making  joinery.  The  sunlight  falling  through 
a  haze  of  wires,  wrought  into  something  bright 
with  its  own  glow  a  tuft  of  grass  which  clumped 
its  spears  on  the  opposite  frieze.  Of  even  these 
small  things  and  of  much  more  Mr.  Maskelyne 
was  partially  conscious.  •  But  the  letter  !  Clear 
sighted  as  he  was,  he  knew  but  little — so  forth 
right  was  his  look,  so  fixed  toward  mere  gain — 
of  the  wonderful  country  which  lies  beneath 
every  man's  nose,  less  even  of  the  vanishing 
tracts  which  retrospection  sometimes  sees  over 
either  shoulder.  But  the  letter  !  It  peopled 


.      THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       271 

his  vision  with  things  long  gone.  It  brought 
into  view  old  Bevington — "  Dick  Bevington," 
as  he  was  called  to  the  last  day  of  his  life — and 
a  nickname  at  fifty  indicates  much  of  character 
— brought  up  before  him  Dick  Bevington  as  he 
was  before  age  had  stiffened  his  easy  but  digni 
fied  carriage  or  taught  his  once  polished  but 
positive  utterance  to  veer  and  haul  in  sudden 
change  ;  brought  up  old  Bevington,  as  he  him 
self,  in  childhood,  had  seen  him,  stately  but 
debonair,  the  perfection  of  aristocratic  exclu- 
siveness,  affable,  however,  in  the  genial  kind 
liness  of  a  kind-hearted  man  secure  in  every 
position  —  a  genuine  Knickerbocker  in  every 
practice  and  in  every  principle — a  well-born, 
well-bred  gentleman.  And  that  once  active 
and  once  ebullient  life  had  long  ago  gone  out ! 
It  almost  seemed  that  such  vitality,  so  held  in 
self-contained  management,  so  wisely  put  forth, 
so  well  invested,  so  to  speak,  should  have  lasted 
forever.  But  now  there  was  nothing  left  to  bring 
him  to  mind  but  a  portrait  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Historical  Society,  or  a  name  in  the  list  of  di 
rectors  when  the  history  of  some  bank  was 
given,  or  in  the  pamphlet  in  which  the  story  of 
some  charitable  institution  was  told  from  the 
beginning — really  there  was  nothing  more  than 


272      THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

this  to  recall  Dick  Bevington,  foremost  among 
the  city's  fathers,  the  leader  of  the  ton.  When 
he  had  last  seen  his  guardian  he  had  thought 
him  of  patriarchal  age.  And  was  not  he  him 
self  now  nearly  as  old  ?  In  spite  of  the  blithe 
some  aspects  of  the  morning,  Jacob  Maskelyne 
turned  away  from  the  window  with  an  unwont 
ed  weight  at  his  heart  and  a  new  wrinkle  on  his 
brow.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  going 
from  him,  losing  charm  and  significance  in  a 
sort  of  blurring  dissatisfaction,  as  upon  a  globe, 
when  swiftly  turned,  lines  of  longitude  and  of 
latitude,  and  even  continents  and  seas,  vanish 
from  sight,  and  all  because  his  own  life  sudden 
ly  seemed  but  vexed  nothingness.  He  had  not 
even  mellowed  into  age  as  had  Bevington.  He 
was  as  sharp  and  as  rough-edged  as  an  Indian's 
flint  arrow-head,  and  he  knew  it. 

He  seated  himself  at  his  table.  Automati 
cally  he  was  about  to  take  up  the  first  of  sev 
eral  bundles  of  law -papers,  when  he  was 
startled  by  the  entrance  of  the  clerk.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  reawakened 
wonder  grew  the  more  when  a  card  was  placed 
before  him  upon  which  was  written,  in  a  dash 
ing  hand,  "  From  Mr.  Bevington." 

"  A  gentleman  to  see  you,"  said  the  clerk. 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING      273 

"  What  does  lie  look  like  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Mas- 
kelyne,  suspiciously. 

"  Nobody  I  ever  saw  before,"  answered  the 
clerk  ;  "  and  he  seems  rather  strange  about  his 
clothes,"  the  man  added,  in  a  rather  doubtful, 
tentative  manner. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  Mr.  Maskelyne 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

The  door  had  hardly  closed  upon  the  vanish 
ing  messenger  when  it  again  swung  upon  its 
hinges,  and  a  new  figure  stood  in  relief  against 
the  clearer  light  from  without.  In  his  eager 
ness  to  see  of  what  nature  a  being  so  intro 
duced  might  be,  Mr.  Maskelyne  turned  his 
chair  completely  around,  and  silently  gazed  at 
the  new-comer  as  he  entered.  His  eyes  fell 
upon  a  slim,  graceful  young  man  dressed  in  the 
mode  of  at  least  forty-five  years  ago — a  mode 
not  without  its  own  good  tone  undoubtedly, 
but  with  a  tendency  toward  gorgeousness, 
which  an  exquisite  of  these  days  of  assertive 
unobtrusiveness,  might  think  almost  vulgar. 
His  whole  attire  was  touched  in  every  detail 
with  that  nameless  something  which  really 
makes  the  consummate  result  unattainable  by 
any  not  born  to  such  excellence ;  but  in  the 
bright  intelligence  shining  in  his  dark  eyes,  and 
18 


274       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

the  clear  intellectual  lines  of  his  face,  even 
Maskelyne  could  see  that  if  he  had  given  much 
thought  to  his  dress  it  was  only  from,  a  proper 
self-respect,  and  not  because  dress  was  the  ul 
timate  or  the  best  expression  of  what  he  was. 
Few  could  look  into  the  luminous  countenance 
and  not  feel  a  glow  of  sudden  sympathy  with 
the  high  aspirations,  the  pure  disinterested 
ness,  the  clear  intellect,  that  lit  up  and  strength 
ened  his  features.  Even  the  old  lawyer,  dis 
ciplined  as  he  was  by  years  of  hard  experience 
to  disregard  all  such  misleading  impulses,  felt 
his  heart  warm  toward  the  young  man. 

"  I  hope  that  I  do  not  intrude  too  greatly  on 
your  time,"  said  the  new-comer,  with  a  smile  so 
pleasant,  so  ingenuous,  so  confiding,  that  all 
Maskelyne's  ideas  of  deception — had  he  had 
time  to  recognize  them  in  the  moment  before  a 
strange,  unquestioning  acquiescence  took  com 
plete  possession  of  him — were  at  once  dissipated. 

Won  really  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  appear 
ance  of  his  visitor,  the  famous  counsellor 
waved  his  hand  toward  a  chair. 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  the  stranger,  with  an 
almost  boyish  sweetness,  as  he  seated  himself, 
"  that  Mr.  Bevington  has  already  told  you  why 
I  am  here." 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING       275 

Mr.  Maskelyne  might  very  well  have  an 
swered  that  Mr.  Bevington  was  hardly  to  be 
looked  to  for  any  information  on  any  subject, 
but  he  did  not — the  wonderful  circumstances 
of  the  interview  had  been  so  driven  from  his 
mind  by  the  potent  charm  of  the  young  man's 
personality. 

"  Mr." — and  he  paused  as  if  waiting  for  en 
lightenment  as  to  the  name  of  the  stranger. 

"  I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  scrape,"  continued  the 
young  man,  apparently  imagining  that  the  let 
ter  had  made  all  necessary  explanations,  and 
mentioning  the  devil  as  though  he  was  an 
every-day  acquaintance,  a  pleasant  fellow  whom 
he  had  just  left  at  the  door  awaiting  his  return. 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  lawyer. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you,"  continued  the 
other,  his  singularly  trufetful  smile  breaking 
again  over  lip  and  cheek. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Maskelyne,  his  wits  and  per 
ceptions  in  most  confusing  entanglement. 

"No,"  went  on  the  unaccountable  visitor. 
"  I  supposed  that  you  would  give  me  what  the 
world  calls  good  advice.  But  I  don't  want 
that.  I  want  to  hear  something  better." 

He  laughed  aloud  in  such  a  joyous,  cheery 
fashion  that  the  old  lawyer  even  smiled. 


276       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

"  You  don't  think  I  am  a  good  man  to  come 
to  for  bad  advice  ?  "  lie  said. 

"The  last  in  the  world.  I  don't  suppose 
that  you  ever  did  a  foolish  thing  in  your  life." 

"  And  therefore  am  perhaps  less  competent 
to  advise  others  who  have,"  replied  Maskelyne, 
half  heedlessly,  for  his  thoughts  were  slowly 
turning  in  a  new  direction.  The  more  he 
looked,  the  more  the  eager,  spirited  face  seemed 
familiar.  He  had  certainly  seen  the  young 
fellow  before,  but  where?  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  certainly  remember  in  a  moment, 
if  he  only  had  time  to  think. 

"  Mr.  Bevington " 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Maskelyne,  in  a 
significant  tone,  "  you  said  Mr.  Bevington  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  stranger,  suddenly 
looking  up  in  evident  surprise.  "  Didn't  he 
write  ?  " 

"  I  have  received  a  letter,"  said  the  old  law 
yer,  cautiously. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  making  some  further 
inquiries,  but  the  impulse  came  to  nothing. 
The  former  feeling  of  acquiescent  but  expect 
ant  apathy  again  possessed  him  ;  indeed,  he 
had  never  been  much  in  the  habit  of  asking 
questions.  He  knew  that  he  often  learned 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       277 

more  than  was  suspected  even,  by  letting  peo 
ple  talk  on  in  their  own  way. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  and  he  paused  a  mo 
ment — "  I  am  very  much  in  debt."  The  young 
man  spoke  as  he  might  of  taking  a  cold,  asleep 
in  the  open  air — as  if  he  had  been  exposed  to 
debt  and  had  caught  it. 

The  first  look  of  sadness  rose  and  deepened 
over  his  face  as  he  shook  his  head  dejectedly. 

"But  I'll  get  over  it." 

"By  your  own  exertions?"  asked  the  law 
yer  dryly  and  evading  the  question. 

"I  write  a  little,"  replied  the  impenitent, 
modestly.  "  I  have  even  heard  of  people  who 
admired  some  of  my  verses." 

"  You  have  no  other  occupation  ?  " 

Old  Maskelyne  was  asking  enough  questions 
now.  Indeed,  under  the  magic  of  the  stranger's 
manner  he  had  quite  forgotten  himself,  his 
usual  caution,  and  even  the  exceptional  way 
in  which  his  companion  had  been  introduced 
to  him. 

"Yes,"  the  other  admitted,  "I  am  a  law 
yer." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  the  older  man  an 
swering  almost  instinctively,  "that  on  the 
whole  you  might  find  the  employments  of  the 


278       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

law  more  remunerative  than  the  calling  of  a— 
poet  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Maskelyne,  I  sometimes  think  that  the 
world  really  believes  in  the  sort  of  thing  under 
lying  your  question.  But  there  are  gains  you 
cannot  invest  in  lands  and  stocks — columns  with 
statues  at  the  top  as  well  as  columns  whose 
sums  are  at  the  bottom.  Who  will  undertake 
to  strike  the  balance  between  fame  and  fort 
une?  What  mathematician  will  undertake  to 
say  that  x,  the  unknown  quantity  of  fame,  does 
not  equal  the  dollar-mark  ?  "  Then  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "  Mr.  Maskelyne,  don't 
you  think  it  is  true  that 

"  '  One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name  ' — 

don't  you  really  ?  " 

It  was  hard  to  resist  such  enthusiasm,  such 
unquestioning  certainty.  The  old  lawyer  did 
not  even  smile  as  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  a 
new  life  shooting  through  every  nerve,  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  flushing  face  of  the  young  man. 

"  And  the  consciousness  .of  best  employing 
the  best  that  is  in  you,"  he  continued.  "  Who 
dare  shorten  the  reach  or  blunt  the  nicety  of 
man's  wit,  make  purblind  the  imagination, 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING      279 

stiffen  the  cunning  hand  ?  .  Tell  men  that  in 
some  Indian  sea,  fathoms  deep,  lie  hid  forever 
Spanish  galleons  in  which  doubloons  and  moi- 
dores,  as  honey  when  it  more  than  fills  the 
comb,  almost  drip  from  the  sacks,  and  you 
will  see  in  their  sudden  thoughtfulness,  how 
quickly  they  appreciate  such  loss ;  tell  them, 
if  you  can,  what,  through  poverty,  erring  en 
deavor,  uncongenial  occupation,  the  world,  with 
each  year,  loses  in  intellectual  riches,  and  they 
will  stand  heedless." 

Speaking  with  the  incomparable  confidence 
of  youth,  its  own  glorious  nonsense,  the  young 
man's  voice  sent  old  Maskelyne's  blood  hasten 
ing  through  his  veins  in  almost  audible  pulsa 
tions. 

"  What  if  I  do  not  wish  great  wealth,"  the 
speaker  continued,  "  must  I  be  made  to  have 
it  ?  I  want  but  little.  Give  me  food,  cloth 
ing,  habitation,  sufficient  that  my  eyes  may  see 
the  delights  this  world  has  to  show,  that  my 
ears  may  catch  the  whispered  harmonies  of  all 
things  beautiful,  gladden  me  with  the  radiance 
of  common  joy,  and  that's  all  I  want.  Are  the 
worldly  so  insecure  that,  as  the  frightened 
kings  sought  to  still  beneath  their  tread  the 
first  throb  of  the  French  Kevolution,  they 


280       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

must  stamp  out  the  first  symptom  of  revolt 
against  the  almighty  dollar  ?  " 

He  paused,  and  glanced  triumphantly  at  the 
old  man.  He  felt  in  some  secret,  instinctive 
way  that  he  was  gaining  ground.  Fine  sense 
was  victorious  for  the  moment  over  common 
sense.  A  squadron  of  fauns  had  charged  from 
amid  the  vine-leaves,  and  the  legion  upon  the 
highway  was  in  rout. 

"  I  think,"  said  Maskelyne,  at  last,  and  with 
a  strange,  sad,  patient  air,  unwearied,  however, 
by  the  young  man's  dithyrambic,  sometimes 
almost  incoherent,  speech,  "  I  think  I  cannot 
attempt  to  advise  you.  Having  discarded  the 
wisdom  of  ages,  what  heed  will  you  give  the 
wisdom  of  age  ?  " 

A  cloud  seemed  to  cast  its  shadow  over  the 
other's  face. 

"  If  I  speak  strongly,"  he  said,  "  it  is  because 
I  feel  strongly.  If  I  did  not  feel  strongly  I 
should  not  attempt  to  withstand  the  amount  of 
testimony  against  me." 

"  Might  I  ask,"  said  Maskelyne,  gently,  in  his 
inexplicable  sympathy  with  the  young  fellow, 
"  why,  if  you  feel  such  confidence  in  all  you 
say,  you  do  not,  without  hesitation,  enter  on  a 
life  in  accordance  with  your  convictions  ?  " 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING      2S1 

At  last  there  was  hesitation  in  the  young 
stranger's  manner.  He  turned  his  hat  nervous 
ly  in  his  hand,  and  sat  silent  for  a  moment. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  paused,  and  began 
again — "  you  see,  if  I  were  alone  it  would  be 
one  thing.  But  I'm  not — not  at  all  alone,"  he 
added,  evidently  gaining  confidence. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lawyer,  a  sudden 
gleam  of  new  intelligence  shining  in  his  dull, 
weary  old  eyes. 

"  And  how  am  I  to  get  married,  Mr.  Mas- 
kelyne  ?  " 

"  The  lady  does  not  approve  of  your — po 
etical  aspirations  ?  " 

"Not  approve!"  cried  the  young  fellow, 
eagerly ;  "  she  has  made  me  promise  that  I 
will  give  nothing  up,  that  I  will  refuse  all  Mr. 
Bevington  has  arranged  for  me.  You  can't 
tell  how  inspiring  our  misery  is.  And  our 
courage  —  a  young  Froissart  must  be  our 
chronicler,  sir.  We  take  our  sorrows  gladly." 

"  And  may  I  ask " 

"Anything,  anything,"  interrupted  the  young 
man,  gayly.  "  I'm  sent  here  to  be  talked  out 
of  what  they  may  call  my  folly.  You  see  I 
can't  be  talked  out  of  it.  Don't  that  prove 
that  it  is  no  folly  ?  " 


282       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

"  You  seem,"  said  Maskelyne,  dryly,  "  to 
have  settled  it  between  you — you  and  she." 

"  Settled  it !  We  did  not  need  help  about 
that.  It's  the  unsettling.  There  comes  a  time 
when  friends  are  the  worst  enemies.  You 
know  that,  Mr.  Maskelyne  ?  " 

The  old  lawyer  paused.  "  Indeed  I  do,"  he 
said  at  last,  and  the  sneer  stealing  over  the  out 
lines  of  his  face  slunk  away  before  the  look  of 
regret  that  came  swiftly  on.  Almost  in  em 
barrassment,  with  nervous  hand,  he  shuffled 
the  papers  on  his  table. 

Far  back  in  the  past,  when  his  eyes  were  not 
yet  dimmed  by  the  dust  blown  from  law-books, 
nor  his  ears  deadened  by  the  stridulous  clamor 
of  litigation,  before  his  life  had  gone  in  at 
tempts  at 

"  Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law," 
or  he  had  lost  himself  in 

"  That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances  ;  " 

when  he,  too,  dwelt  in  that  other- world  of  the 
young,  forgotten  by  everyone  but  himself,  but, 
although  hardly  ever  remembered,  never  forgot 
ten  by  him — not  one  grain  of  its  golden  sand, 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       283 

not  one  drop  of  its  honey-dew,  not  one  tremor 
of  its  slightest  thrill — then  even  he  had  had  his 
romance.  The  freshness  of  the  early  spring 
morning,  the  airy  brightness  of  his  young 
visitor,  himself  no  bad  exponent  of  the  day, 
the  awe-footed  shadow  which,  with  almost  un 
recognized  obtrusion,  skirts  the  border  where 
the  ripened  grain  fills  the  field  of  life  and  nods 
to  the  ready  sickle — was  it  something  of  such 
kind,  or  was  it  the  simple  story  of  which  he 
had  such  telling  intimation,  that  brought  it  all 
up  in  memory's  half -tender  glow  ?  He,  too,  had 
once  been  in  love.  He,  too,  had  written  verses 
to  his  inamorata.  He  remembered  it  all  now, 
with  a  smile  of  mingled  pity  and  contempt.  It 
needed  no  ransacking  of  the  brain  now  to 
quicken  into  full  view  his  own  "  It  might  have 
been  " — to  people  once  more  the  mystic  world 
whose  first  paradise  is  rich  in  the  slight  garni 
ture  of  glances  and  sighs  and  smiles  and  tears. 
Lost  in  himself,  the  old  man  forgot  his  visitor. 

"  You  are  very  young,"  he  said,  at  last,  ab 
sently. 

"  Twenty-three,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  she?" 

"  Eighteen." 

It  was  strange,  but  he,  too,  had  been  twenty- 


284       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

three  and  she  eighteen  when  the  end  came  in 
that  glimmering,  gleaming  past.  He  remem 
bered —  and  how  strange  the  recollection 
seemed — taking  her,  on  her  birthday,  some 
flowers  and  some  slight  silver  gift — a  poor,  in 
expensive  thing,  for  she  would  let  him  give  no 
more  because  he  too,  was  in  debt.  And  now, 
with  strange  revulsion,  he  hardened  almost 
into  his  habitual  self,  and  grimly  thought  that 
it  all  was  youthful  nonsense,  and  that  all  such 
follies  were  very  much  alike.  Had  he  spoken, 
he  would  have  been  guilty  of  one  of  those 
faults  often  packed  with  error,  an  apothegm — 
he  would  have  said  that  we  only  become  orig 
inal,  even  in  our  folly,  as  age  gives  us  charac 
ter. 

"  We  could  be  so  happy  with  so  little,"  said 
the  youthful  lover. 

The  old  man  started.  These  were  his  own 
words  many,  many  years  ago  ;  his  very  words 
to  his  guardian  when  the  final  appeal  was  made 
by  old  Bevington  to  what  he  called  his  better 
judgment,  so  very,  very  long  ago,  in  the  dark, 
stately  house  upon  Second  Avenue. 

"  So  very  little,"  repeated  the  young  man. 
"  I  have  always  said,"  he  continued,  as  pleased 
with  the  conceit  as  if  it  had  never  before  glit- 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING      285 

tered  in  the  song  of  finches  of  his  feather, 
"  that  we  should  have  gold  enough  in  her 
hair." 

"  And  is  her  hair  golden  ?  "  asked  Maskelyne, 
and,  startled  by  the  sound  of  such  words 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  distinguished 
counsel  for  many  a  soulless  corporation  and 
many  as  soulless  a  man,  he  added,  hurriedly, 
"  light."  And  then  the  old  lawyer  remembered 
that  he,  too,  had  a  lock  of  hair  that  he  had  not 
sent  back  when  he  returned  her  letters  and 
her  picture.  How  bright  it  was  !  What  had 
become  of  it?  Where  was  it?  In  what  pigeon 
hole,  what  secret  drawer?  He  could  not  for 
the  moment  remember.  He  looked  out  of  the 
window.  How  bright  the  sunshine  was  !  How 
empty  the  world !  It  seemed  to  build  up  its 
vacancy  around  him  as  a  wall. 

"  And  she,  of  course,  has  no  money  ?  "  he 
said,  turning  again. 

"  None." 

He  had  been  sure  of  it.  He  rose  and  went 
to  the  window.  The  joyful  attributes  of  the 
morning  were  there,  but  they  were  no  longer 
joyful  to  him.  The  light  fell  in  the  same  broad 
flood,  still  promising  the  glory  of  summer,  the 
ripened  harvest,  but  there  was  no  promise  for 


286       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

him.  The  sparrows  preluded  still  the  full- 
voiced  singers  of  the  year,  when  leaves  are 
heavy  with  the  dust  and  brooks  run  dry,  but 
he  heard  only  a  quick,  petulant  twitter.  A 
sort  of  dull  despondency  suddenly  settled  upon 
him.  He  forgot  his  visitor,  and  even  time  and 
place.  Amid  the  glimmering  lights  and  shak 
ing  shadows  of  the  past,  he  sought  a  vision,  as 
at  twilight  one  seeks  in  some  deserted  corridor 
a  statue  which  would  seem  to  have  so  taken 
into  its  grain  the  last  rays  of  the  already  sunk 
en  sun,  that  the  marble  glows  in  the  gathering 
darkness  with  a  radiance  not  its  own. 

The  young  man  grew  impatient  as  the  revery 
was  prolonged.  He  stirred  uneasily.  The  old 
lawyer  turned  and  looked  curiously  at  him. 
Of  course,  of  course  f  Was  a  man  to  be 
changed,  the  bone  of  what  he  was  to  have  its 
marrow  drawn,  the  fibre  of  every  muscle  to  be 
untwisted,  by  this  nonsense  of  a  boy  ?  Of 
course  old  Bevington  was  right,  and  for  the 
moment  he  did  not  remember  that  Bevington 
was  dead — in  sending  the  young  fool  to  such  a 
cool  old  hand  as  himself.  But  if  Bevington 
had  known  what  a  turbulence  of  disappoint 
ment,  discontent,  and  revolt  had  risen,  and 
poured  in  strength-gathering  torrent,  even  at 


THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING       287 

that  instant,  through  his  heart,  would  he  not 
have  kept  his  young  charge  away  ?  He  would 
talk  to  him — certainly  he  would — pave  his  way 
for  him,  perhaps,  as  with  flag-stones  of  wis 
dom.  Perhaps — and  then  he  thought  with 
grim  satisfaction  of  what  Bevington  might 
think  should  he  learn  that  he  recognized  that 
there  were  other  paths  than  those  edged  by  a 
curbstone. 

"  You  have  been  sent  to  me,"  he  said,  very 
seriously,  coming  from  the  window  and  leaning 
with  both  hands  on  the  table,  "  for  advice  and 
admonition.  I  shall  give  my  lesson  in  sternest 
characters.  I  shall  teach  by  example,  but  I  may 
not  teach  what  you  were  sent  here  to  learn. 
When  I  was  as  young  as  you — do  not  start,  I 
was  young  once,"  and  he  spoke  with  infinite 
sadness,  "  I  loved  as  you  love,  and,  as  with  you, 
love  was  returned.  They  who  called  themselves 
my  friends  strove,  with  what  they  called  rea 
son,  to  tear  me  from  what  they  called  my  folly. 
My  folly  !  It  was  the  wisdom  that  it  takes  all 
that  is  blent  into  humanity  at  supremest  mo 
ments  to  attain;  their  reason — the  fatuous 
folly  only  enough  to  give  habitual  stir  to  an 
earth-beclotted  brain  !  I  yielded,  as  you  have 
not  yielded.  I  killed  out  even  the  natural  irn- 


288       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

pulses  of  my  nature.  Gradually  almost  new 
instincts  came,  desire  for  delight  sank  into  ap 
petite  for  gain,  hope  for  the  joy  of  higher  ex 
istence  was  lost  in  the  ambition  for  mere  ad 
vancement.  I  wrought  out  in  myself  that 
fearful  piece  of  handiwork  whose  every  effort 
is  but  to  grasp  the  worthless  handful  man  can 
only  wrest  from  the  mere  world.  I  lost,  and  I 
have  not  won.  I  was  a  man  and  I  am  only  a 
lawyer,  and  to  him  you  have  been  sent  for  ad 
vice.  I  can  find  no  precedent  better,  no  au 
thority  more  weighty  for  your  guidance,  than 
my  own  life.  Such  strength  as  enabled  me  to 
work  such  a  change  will  also  enable  you  to 
make  yourself  a  new  being,  to  accomplish  self- 
overthrow,  to  bring  you  to  what  I  am — a  man 
rich,  successful,  courted,  revered — most  miser 
able.  He  who  has  so  won,  so  lost,  stands 
alone,  or  he  would  not  so  win.  Choose  rather 
the  close  companionship  of  worldly  defeat,  if 
it  must  be,  and  I  say  to  you  in  the  rapture  of 
your  youth,  clay  plastic  to  the  moment's  touch, 
hold  to  yourself,  and  believe  that  no  fame,  no 
power,  no  wealth,  can  compensate  for  a  conten 
tious  life,  an  empty  heart,  a  desolate  old  age. 

If  I  were  you " 

He    did    not    finish.       Slowly    the    young 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING       289 

stranger  rose  to  his  full  height,  every  linea 
ment  of  his  face  clear  in  cold  light.  His 
whole  aspect  was  one  of  steadfast  command. 

"  Stop,"  he  cried,  in  a  stern  tone.  "  I  am 
yourself.  No  ghost  walks  save  that  which  is 
what  a  man  might  have  been.  We  throng  the 
world.  Beside  everyone  through  life  moves 
the  image  of  a  past  potentiality,  the  thing  he 
could  have  become  had  he  held  along  another 
course.  I  am  what  you  were,  the  promise  of 
what  you  might  have  been.  For  forty  years  I 
have  walked  by  your  side.  I  have  touched 
you  and  you  have  shuddered,  I  have  chilled 
you  and  you  have  shrunk  from  me.  Your  nat 
ure  has  so  grown  athwart,  all  impulse  has  been 
so  long  gone,  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  so 
thrown  off,  that,  in  almost  final  self-assertion, 
what  you  really  were  or  might  have  been, 
stands  by  your  side  and  bids  you  measure 
stature  with  itself.  Your  life  has  entered  upon 
its  wintry  days,  but  sunlight  is  sunshine  even 
in  December ;  and  in  youth " 

The  old  lawyer,  almost  shuddering,  stepped 
back  with  repelling  gesture.  He  passed  his 
hand  quickly  across  his  eyes,  and  then,  as  if 
his  heart  had  beat  recall,  summoning  back 
every  retreating  force  in  quick  rally,  com- 
19 


290       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

pelled  but  not  unwilling,  he  turned  in  com 
bative  instinct  to  meet  the  stranger  face  to 
face,  nature  to  nature,  turned — and  found  him 
self  alone. 

Once  more  the  clerk  opened  the  door. 

"  Eleven  o'clock,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
know  the  General  Term  this  morning " 

"  You  saw  the  gentleman  who  just  went 
out  ?  "  asked  the  lawyer. 

"  I,  sir! "  answered  the  man,  "  I  saw  no  one 
go  out." 

"  No  one  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

"  You  certainly  brought  me  a  card  and  showed 
a  young  gentleman  in  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  I,  sir !  "  repeated  the  clerk.  "  I  brought  in 
a  card  and  showed  a  young  gentleman  in  ! " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Maskelyne,  sternly. 

As  soon  as  he  was  again  alone  he  stepped  to 
the  table.  The  card  and  the  letter  were  gone. 
And  still  he  knew  he  had  not  been  dreaming. 
A  man,  swung  high  in  the  air,  was  busy  painting 
a  sign  upon  a  building  not  far  away,  and  he 
was  conscious  that  all  through  the  strange  in 
terview  he  had  watched  him  at  work.  He  had 
seen  him  finish  one  letter  and  then  another, 


THE  END   OF  THE  BEGINNING       291 

and  now  if  he  found  him  adding  the  final  con 
sonant  he  would  be  assured  he  could  not  have 
been  asleep.  He  looked  up  and  found  that  he 
was  right.  The  man  had  just  made  the  heavy 
shaded  side,  and  was  busy  putting  the  little 
finishing  line  at  the  bottom  of  the  letter. 

Two  men — one  of  rotund  middle  age,  the 
other  younger  but  yet  not  young — came  down 
the  steps  of  the  Union  Club  a  few  weeks  later. 
They  met  an  old  man  rounding  the  corner  of 
the  Avenue. 

"  See  what  you  would  come  to  if  you  had 
your  own  way,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two. 
"  There's  old  Maskelyne.  He's  got  everything 
you're  making  yourself  wretched  to  get.  Do 
you  want  to  be  like  him  ?  " 

"  Then  you  haven't  heard  ?  " 

"Heard  what?" 

"  He's  a  changed  man,  all  within  a  month." 

"  Has  his  brain  or  his  heart  softened  ?  " 

"As  you  look  at  life,"  said  the  younger. 
"  He  has  sent  for  that  clever,  improvident, 
gracefully  graceless  good-fellow  of  a  good-for- 
nothing,  his  nephew — for  him  and  his  pretty- 
handed,  big-eyed  wife — he  hadn't  seen  either 
of  them  since  they  ran  away  and  were  mar- 


292       THE  END  OF  THE  BEGINNING 

ried — sent  for  them  and  put  them  in  his  great, 
old  house  and — they  say  at  the  Club  the  neph 
ew  will  have  all  the  old  man's  property." 

"  What's  the  world   coming  to  ?  "  said  the 
senior,  "  or  what  is  coming  to  the  world  ?  " 


RIEF  LIST  OF  BOOKS  OF  FICTION 
PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS,  743-745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


William  Waldorf  Astor. 

VALENTINO:  An  Historical  Romance.  (I2mo,  $1.00).— SFORZA  :  A  Story  of 
Milan.  (I2mo,  $1.50.) 

"  The  story  is  full  of  clear-cut  little  tableaux  of  mediaeval  Italian 
manners,  customs,  and  observances.  The  movement  throughout  is 
spirited,  the  reproduction  of  bygone  times  realistic.  Mr.  Astor  has 
written  a  romance  which  will  heighten  the  reputation  he  made  by 
'  Valentino.' " — The  New  York  Tribune. 

Arlo  Bates. 

A  WHEEL  OF  FIRE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"The  novel  deals  with  character  rather  than  incident,  and  is 
evolved  from  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  moral  problems  with  a 
subtlety  not  unlike  that  of  Hawthorne.  One  cannot  enumerate  all 
the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
in  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
tenderness." —  The  Critic. 

Hjalmar  H.  Bqyesen. 

FALCONBERG.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $I.50)-GUNNAR.  (Sq.  I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.  (Sq.  I2mo, 
$1.00)— ILKA  ON  THE  HILL  TOP,  and  Other  Stories.  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00) 
—QUEEN  TITANIA  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00). 

"  Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  more  attractive 
than  they  are  strong." — The  Home  Journal. 

H.  C.  'Bunner. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  YORK  HOUSE.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost.  (I2mos 
$1.25)— THE  MIDGE.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.00}— ZADOC  PINE, 
and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"It  is  Mr.  Bunner's  delicacy  of  touch  and  appreciation  of  what 
is  literary  art  that  give  his  writings  distinctive  quality.  Everything 
Mr.  Bunner  paints  shows  the  happy  appreciation  of  an  author  who 
has  not  alone  mental  discernment,  but  the  artistic  appreciation. 
The  author  and  the  artist  both  supplement  one  another  in  this  ex 
cellent  'Story  of  a  New  York  House.'" — The  New  York  Times 


2          SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 

THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S.  Illustrated  (paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.25)- 
HAWORTH'S.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $I.25)-THROUGH  ONE  ADMINISTRA* 
TION.  (I2mo,  $1.50)— LOUISIANA.  (I2mo,  $1.25)— A  FAIR  BARBARIAN. 
(I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— VAGABONDIA.  A  Love  Story.  (I2mo, 
paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.25)-  SURLY  TIM,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  $1.25) 
EARLIER  STORIES— First  Series,  EARLIER  STORIES-Second  Series 
(I2mo,  each,  paper,  50  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.25). 

THE  PRETTY  SISTER  OF  JOSE".  Illustrated  byC.  S.  Rheinhart  (I2mo,  $1.00), 

LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.  (Sq.  8vo,  $2.00) -SARA  CREWE;  or, 
What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchin's.  (Sq.  8vo,  $1.00)— LITTLE  SAINT 
ELIZABETH,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  $1.50.)  Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch. 

"  Mrs.  Burnett  discovers  gracious  secrets  in  rough  and  forbidding 
natures — the  sweetness  that  often  underlies  their  bitterness — the  soul 
of  goodness  in  things  evil.  She  seems  to  have  an  intuitive  percep 
tion  of  character.  If  we  apprehend  her  personages,  and  I  think  we 
do  clearly,  it  is  not  because  she  describes  them  to  us,  but  because 
they  reveal  themselves  in  their  actions.  Mrs.  Burnett's  characters 
are  as  veritable  as  Thackeray's."— RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

William  Allen  Butler. 

DOMESTICUS.     A  Tale  of  the  Imperial  City.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  Under  a  veil  made  intentionally  transparent,  the  author  main 
tains  a -running  fire  of  good-natured  hits  at  contemporary  social 
follies.  There  is  a  delicate  love  story  running  through  the  book. 
The  author's  style  is  highly  finished.  One  migbt  term  it  old-fashioned 
in  its  exquisite  choiceness  and  precision," — 7"he  New  York  Journal 
of  Commerce. 

George  W.  Cable. 

THE  GRANDISSIMES.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $I.25)-OLD  CREOLE 
DAYS.  (I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25 ;  also  in  two  parts,  I6mo,  cloth,  each,  75  cts. ; 
paper,  each,  30  cts.)— DR.  SEVIER.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.25)— 
BONAVENTURE.  A  Prose  Pastoral  of  Arcadian  Louisiana.  (I2mo,  paper 
50  cts.  ;  $1.25.) 

The  set,  4.  vols.,  $5.00. 

"  There  are  few  living  American  writers  who  can  reproduce  fot 
us  more  perfectly  than  Mr.  Cable  does,  in  his  best  moments,  the 
speech,  the  manners,  the  whole  social  atmosphere  of  a  remote  time 
and  a  peculiar  people.  A  delicious  flavor  of  humor  penetrates  his 
stories." — The  New  York  Tribune. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.         3 

Richard  Harding  Davis. 

GALLEGHER,  and  Other  Stories.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.00.; 

The  ten  stories  comprising  this  volume  attest  the  appearance  of  a 
new  and  strong  individuality  in  the  field  of  American  fiction.  They 
are  of  a  wide  range  and  deal  with  very  varied  types  of  metropolitan 
character  and  situation  ;  but  each  proves  that -Mr.  Davis  knows 
his  New  York  as  well  as  Dickens  did  his  London. 

Edward  Eggleston. 

ROXY— THE  CIRCUIT  RIDER.    Illustrated  (each  I2mo,  $1.50). 

"Dr.  Eggleston's  fresh  and  vivid  portraiture  of  a  phase  of  life 
and  manners,  hitherto  almost  unrepresented  in  literature  ;  its  boldly 
contrasted  characters,  and  its  unconventional,  hearty,  religious  spirit, 
took  hold  of  the  public  imagination." — The  Christian  Union. 

Erckmann-Cbatrian . 

THE  CONSCRIPT.  Illustrated— WATERLOO.  Illustrated.  (Sequel  to  The 
Conscript.)— MADAME  TH^RESE— THE  BLOCKADE  OF  PHALSBURG. 
Illustrated  — THE  INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  1814.  Illustrated  -  A 
MILLER'S  STORY  OF  THE  WAR.  Illustrated. 

The  National  Novels,  each,  $1.23  ;   the  set,  6  vols.,  $7.50. 
FRIEND  FRITZ.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.  ;   cloth,  $1.25.) 

Eugene  Field. 

A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  PROFITABLE  TALES.     (I6mo,  $1.25.) 

*'  This  pretty  little  volume  promises  to  perpetuate  examples  of  a 
wit,  humor,  and  pathos  quaint  and  rare  in  their  kind.  Genial  and 
sympathetic,  Mr.  Field  has  already  made  a  mark  in  the  literature 
of  the  day,  which  will  not  quickly  wear  out." — New  York  Tribzme. 

Harold  Frederic. 

SETH'S  BROTHER'S  WIFE.  (I2mo,  $1  25)-THE  LAWTON  GIRL.  (12mo, 
$1.25;  paper,  50  cts.)— IN  THE  VALLEY.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50). 

<4  Mr.  Frederic's  new  tale  takes  a  wide  range,  includes  many 
characters,  and  embraces  a  field  of  action  full  of  dramatic  climaxes. 
It  is  almost  reasonable  to  assert  that  there  has  not  been  since 
Cooper's  day  a  better  American  novel  dealing  with  a  purely  his 
torical  theme  than  '  In  the  Valley.'  " — Boston,  Beacon. 

Octave  Tbanet. 

EXPIATION.     Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  remarkable  novel  shows  an  extraordinary  grasp  of  drama. 
tic  possibilities  as  well  as  an  exquisite  delicacy  of  character  drawing. 
Miss  French  has  with  this  work  taken  her  place  among  the  very 
foremost  of  American  writers  of  fiction." — Boston  Beacon 


4         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

]ames  Anthony  Froude. 

THE  TWO  CHIEFS  OF  DUNBOY.  An  Irish  Romance  of  the  Last  Century, 
(I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $L50.) 

"  The  narrative  is  full  of  vigor,  spirit,  and  dramatic  power.  It 
•will  unquestionably  be  widely  read,  for  it  presents  a  vivid  and  life 
like  study  of  character  with  romantic  color  and  adventurous  incident 
for  the  background." — The  New  York  Tribune, 

Robert  Grant. 

FACE  TO  FACE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25.) 

"  This  is  a  well-told  story,  the  interest  of  which  turns  upon  a  game 
of  cross  purposes  between  an  accomplished  English  girl,  posing  as  a 
free  and  easy  American  Daisy  Miller,  and  an  American  gentleman, 
somewhat  given  to  aping  the  manners  of  the  English." — The 
Buffalo  Express. 

Edward  Everett  Hale. 

PHILIP   NOLAN'S   FRIENDS.      Illustrated  (I2mo,   Paper,  50  cents;    Cloth, 

$1.75.) 

"There  is  no  question,  we  think,  that  this  is  Mr.  Hale's  com* 
pletest  and  best  novel.  The  characters  are  for  the  most  part  well 
drawn,  and  several  of  them  are  admirable." — The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Marion  Harland. 

JUDITH:  A  Chronicle  of  Old  Virginia.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1  00) 
—HANDICAPPED.  (I2mo,  $1.50).— WITH  THE  BEST  INTENTIONS. 

A  Midsummer  Episode.     (I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.25;  Paper,  50  cents.) 

r  "Fiction  has  afforded  no  more  charming  glimpses  of  old  Virginia- 
life  than  are  found  in  this  delightful  story,  with  its  quaint  pictures, 
its  admirably  drawn  characters,  its  wit,  and  its  frankness."—"^* 
Brooklyn  Daily  Times. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

FREE  JOE,  and  Other  Georgian  Sketches.    (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.,  cloth,  $!.00.) 

"  The  author's  skill  as  a  story  writer  has  never  been  more  felic 
itously  illustrated  than  in  this  volume.  The  title  story  is  meagre 
almost  to  baldness  in  incident,  but  its  quaint  humor,  its  simple  but 
broadly  outlined  characters,  and,  above  all,  its  touching  pathos, 
combine  to  make  it  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind."—  The  New  York  Sun. 

Augustus  Allen  Hayes. 

THE  JESUIT'S  RING.  A  Romance  of  Mount  Desert  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cl».\ 
cloth,  $1.00). 

"  The  conception  of  the  story  is  excellent. " —  The  Boston  Traveller. 


